


Fate, Boredom, and Messing With Multiverses.

by CescaLR



Series: In Which Higher Powers Make Mortal Messes. [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Episode: s05e07 Strange Frequencies, F/M, Gen, I think that's all you need to know, Post-Season/Series 05A, Set in Harry Potter's universe, Swearing, everyone is the age that makes sense, so the TW characters are all eleven year olds, with Teen Wolf characters transplanted there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-11-07 08:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11055324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: Fate's lived a long life, and her warnings have been ignored quite a few times.This universe - specifically, 100-Chosen_One - is one in which they're ignored so utterly that, in her boredom (because, dear Life, paperwork is horrifying in the quantities she has to deal with on a second-ly basis) she decided that she'd rather had enough, and it was about time she meddled.She may or may not have been drunk, and may or may not have doomed some other 'verse by taking a few Very Important Pawns from the board, but it's fine. Fate'll fix it.Or her brother will... but she tries not to think on that too much. Destiny has rather the... Final way, of dealing with problems. It's not fun, is what Fate's saying. So she'll fix it. She has to.





	1. Strange Occurrences. Lasting Consequences.

**Author's Note:**

> Fate's pretty important, but she won't show up until second year... just be like, a narrator in the back ground for the first story, telling a bit of Fate's life up in the realm she and her family live. So yes, OCs are prevalent, so you know. Some more TW characters may or may not appear due to the meddling of other Higher Powers, we'll see.   
> Also, some book text will be used if nothing at all needs to be changed, for a while. Later on down the line, of course book text will become irrelevant, but until then I don't own a fair bit. Basically, if you recognise the wording, it's JKR's, and I don't own it. there's enough change in here that I think it's viable for posting, however if not future chapters past the second one will have more re-wording. Hope you all enjoy this!

She had never really been taken wholly seriously in her lifetimes.

It was an understandable thing, of course - Fate’s hosts tended to be a little on the odd side of things. And it’s not like they know they’re Fate’s hosts - aside from the fact that they See more than most. But that can be waved away in worlds of magic; they See more, so that must mean Magic granted them the dubious gift of Sight, yes? They’re _just_ a Seer - and, _really_ … that’s a pretty woolly art, all things considered. Even **Fate** admits that; something about her power being filtered and diluted, sometimes even corrupted (apologies to Cassandra…) - well, it’s no wonder no-one ever listens to her warnings.

But sometimes, she does more than warn. Yes, for the heck of it mostly, but regardless of reason she still messes around with things that shouldn’t really be messed with without a concrete plan - such as the data banks for the multiverse. 

Yeah. _Those,_ semi-important things. 

... And when she messes this time, so what if she chooses a host down there known by most as being a little loony, so what if she takes a few randomers from another universe (that she’s also rather fond of, coincidentally)? It’s just a bit of fun. Being Fate can get boring, sometimes - being all high and mighty and  _ oh dear Lord,  _ the  **_paperwork_ ** \- so she needs a bit of a break, every now and then. 

Because of this, there were perhaps some semi-thoughtless actions on her part that doubtlessly had severe consequences. Such as this one, in which, across the multiverse, in ‘verse 3-1-45, subset of ‘verses 300-True-Alpha (ERROR: CORRUPTED DATA (Which, I assure you, she has apologised for causing many times since)) and a (In the process of corruption due to Fate meddling where she shouldn’t - she’ll need to make this subset standalone to keep it alive...) 100-Chosen-One...

* * *

 

Stiles, Scott and Malia groaned.

Consciousness came to them slowly - until they noticed their surroundings, that is. 

Stiles was the first to react; he jumped when he realised that he didn't recognise them - turning, Stiles saw that they were in a train compartment.

Malia and Scott did the very same thing, perhaps a little later, but they still came to the exact same conclusion that Stiles did. 

In the time it took for them to asses what the  _ fuck  _ was going on, the train compartment’s door was opened. A boy, appearing to be no older than eleven, entered.

(They belatedly noticed that there was another kid in the compartment who had been there before the three’s arrival, that was still in shock from the suddenness of it.

This boy had messy black hair, and bright green eyes seemingly too big for his (malnourished) face. Stiles was starting to get suspicious, and a half-forgotten memory was surfacing in Malia’s mind. 

As per usual, Scott hadn’t read the books, (They were on his to-do list!) so he had no idea of the significance of the eleven year old’s appearance.)

"Uh - Hullo." The redhead greeted, then asked; "Can I join? Everywhere else is full..." He blinked. “Oh. So’s this place. Er - got any space to spare?”

Stiles was internally freaking out - because, well,  _ fuck, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, and we’re the same age as these kids  _ **_fuck -_ **

The other two noticed, of course; the increase of his heartbeat, the tapping of his fingers against his thigh and the darting of his eyes signified said freaking. Malia placed a hand on his bicep - a small, child’s hand on a child’s bicep - and guided him to the seat opposite the black-haired boy. She sat down next to him, on his right, rubbing a comforting, calming hand on his shoulder. 

Scott thought quickly, then sat down on the side of the seat closest to the door. “Of course.” He addressed the younger -  _ not  _ younger redhead. Scott needs to remember that; these are kids yeah, but he’s one too now, again.

… Damnit, puberty twice? Scott sighed, but gestured to the seat across. “These compartments seem to fit six.” He added. “You’re welcome to stay.” 

The black-haired boy was still staring at them, unblinking - still in shock, Scott knew; he could smell the chemosignals.

Malia and Stiles appeared to be in their own little bubble while she calmed him down from his panic, and so Scott took it upon himself to distract the other boys. 

“What’s your names?” He asked, diplomatically. “I’m Scott.”

“Ron Weasley.” The boy opposite him answered. Said eleven-year-old frowned, before taking a rat out of his pocket. “This is scabbers.” He added frowning - a little disgusted but also slightly fond, Scott scented; a family pet then, it must be. “Nice rat.” Stiles says weakly - his eyes tell a different story, though; dark and perhaps a little angry. To Scott it seems like second-hand anger; like he’s angry at the rat for somebody else.

Scott knows why he’s angry. Just because he hadn’t read the books doesn’t mean he didn’t see the movies; and who knows, maybe the movies were more accurate in some ways than the books - what if knowing the movies helps in situations where the world seems to have merged or replaced book parts with things from the movies? Regardless of how he knows, this is  _ Ron Weasley.  _ A redheaded eleven-year-old who’s life will be a bit terrible, in all honesty - and Scott feels empathy for that. He knows what it’s like, after all. They all do. 

Ron seems a little surprised, but he’s not jaded; not like he will be. “Thanks.” He replies; genuine, Scott thinks. 

“And you?” Malia asks the bespectacled pre-teen, who flashes a smile-grimace; still shocked, still shaken. “Harry. Harry Potter.” He says; cautious, eyes flicking over their reactions. 

Stiles stiffens, a little - his fears confirmed, Scott knows. Malia nods, an odd look as if she’s trying to place the name; like she knows but can’t quite remember.

Another thing her time as a coyote took, Scott thinks. Another thing on a long, long list. At least this’ll give her some of her life back, Scott hopes. She never got to be eleven, in their old world. It’s something - Scott always prefers to look for silver linings in things; he’d go mad if he didn’t. 

Scott smiles, and Ron’s eyes widen. Before the redhead can say anything, Stiles speaks up. 

“How’s fame?” He asks, drily. “Is it all the media says it’ll be?” 

Harry looks a little uncomfortable, and Scott’s not sure where Stiles is going with this line of questioning. 

“I- uh.” Harry starts, stops. Unsure. 

“Sorry about your parents.” Stiles says - softer, this time. Malia gets this look in her eye, and Scott knows she understands the obvious implications. “I heard about that.” Malia added - much softer than usual; empathetic. “I get it. I - we get it.” She adds, repeats - glancing at Stiles. 

Harry looks a little surprised. “You’re orphans?” 

Stiles snorts - unexpected, darkly humorous. “Might as well be.” He replies. Scott realises that he’s  _ right -  _ they’re here now… but their parents, their friends - they  _ aren’t.  _

It probably shows on his face, this realisation. Malia’s face is grim, too - she knew, Scott knows, she’d understood this before he did. 

_ Bitch.  _ Stiles thinks. Referring to the reason they’re without friends and family. Though he isn’t really sure who or what it is, he’s still pissed as fuck with her.

(Again, she’s deeply sorry - but She’s already interfered enough; She’s not  _ allowed  _ to send more people, or take them back. This is it, for them, this is how it goes and will go for as long as they live. Honestly, sometimes Fate regrets her life decisions.)

Malia extrapolates for the boys across; they’re confused - which is dangerous, in that Stiles’ statement could be taken in completely the wrong way.

“Stiles’ dad is alive.” She explains. “But, well, there’s a reason Stiles is going to a boarding school instead of the local one.” Malia inclines her head. “Not a distaste for his skills but rather an inability to accept that they exist. It’s easier to think he’s going to a school for especially gifted children than one for -” She glances at Scott, who nods, and continues “-Magic.” Malia finishes. “My dad is my adoptive dad... “ The girl hesitates, and ploughs on. “After the car crash what took my mom, and - Kylie,” She faltered, expression saddened, “... well, I sort of lived in the woods for a long time. When I was found I was placed in Eichen House; this, mental hospital - and, uh, that’s where I met Scott.” She glanced at Scott, who took over.

“I was visiting a friend; Lydia.” He decided; it was true enough, besides the fact (that he’ll always feel bad for) of him not actually doing that - it was true in the sense that she’d been there. Scott swallowed, and continued. “She was… lost, to the world.” He paused, sad at the memory of it, before moving on - “As I was leaving I bumped into Malia. Started visiting her, as well, so she wouldn’t be alone.”

“I had a stint there.” Stiles said drily. “It… wasn’t fun. But it’s where I met Mal. Scotty’s been my best friend since fourth grade, so.”

Little lie, there - it was slightly more recent; after Theo left that first time, they grew closer and became best friends. Scott had honestly thought Stiles’ original antagonism against Theo had been because of his disappearance, truthfully. He’d been wrong, of course, but could you blame him for thinking that?

“What were you doing there?” Ron asked; bluntly curious - at least he didn’t try to hide it… after being deceived for a fair while, Malia’s glad to have found someone who has their intentions as obvious as their chemosignals.

Scott frowns but Stiles waves him off. “My mom was there for a while before she died.” He explained. “There was a bit of a traumatic incident, shall we say, towards the end, there. I got placed because they’d treated her well enough, and it was the closest and cheapest place around that had people trained to deal with trauma and the like.”

Ron nods - satisfied, and thoroughly distracted from questioning Harry about anything, Scott realised. So that was Stiles’ endgame. 

Harry seemed to realise the same, as he shot a grateful look their way. Stiles inclined his head and Malia flashed a smile. The boy turned to Ron - perhaps to ask him a question about his life - but the door opened first. 

“Hey, Ron.” 

Two identical redheaded teens (just about, Scott thinks - thirteen, fourteen maybe?) stood in the entryway. 

Harry smiled slightly; he knew these people in the way of one that’s recently met another. Ron’s expression immediately soured slightly - but only slightly. 

"Listen, we're going down the middle of the train - Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbled Ron. Scott was highly certain that these were the Weasley twins; Fred and George. He might have to concede defeat on the book vs. movie front at least for now; he definitely didn’t remember this scene. 

Stiles looked up, then sat back - deliberately calm, relaxed. Scott could tell he was still anything but, yet he let his friend pretend, at least for now. 

"Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And Ron’s our brother. See you later, then."

"Bye," said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

Ron glanced at the others in the compartment, and Stiles decided now would be a good time to interject. 

“What’s it like, having siblings?” He asked - perhaps a bit abrupt, but it worked to derail Ron’s original train of thought, which had been Stiles’ intention in the first place. 

So all works out in the end. 

Ron immediately looked a little down, a little moody - like the questioning had reminded him of things he’d rather not think on. 

“Pressuring.” The eleven-year-old admitted, glancing around as if expecting a relative to pop up out of the woodworks and tell him to appreciate what he’s got rather than wish for what he hasn’t. 

“Yeah.” Malia said - surprisingly; Neither of her friends had expected that. 

Seeing their faces, she explained, painstakingly. “I, uh, had a sister - Kylie,” she confessed. “She died in the car accident… I was the older one. Supposed to protect her, you know. I didn’t, and now she’s dead. So yeah, it’s pressuring, but… I hate her not being around.”

Stiles blinked. After a moment of pause, wherein they all registered her words, he pulled her in for a hug and she hid her face against his neck. 

Ron suddenly looked awkward, and Harry looked like he didn’t know what to think. Scott didn’t think Malia had ever admitted so much about her family… thinking about it, he barely knew what her childhood was like at all, aside from the vague notion that it was a pretty normal one. 

Stiles seemed to know what he was doing, though. Perhaps she told him more about all of this than anyone else. She was closest to him, after all. 

Ron flicked his eyes around the compartment, fixing abstractly (but not really) on Harry’s forehead. The boy in question noticed, and looked back at the redhead. 

He flicked his eyes away but returned them and decided to finally ask. “I just - are you  _ really  _ Harry Potter?  _ The  _ Harry Potter? Because Fred and George really enjoy pulling pranks, and I dunno but... “ Ron shrugged. “Do you have the Scar?” He asked - blurted, really. Scott frowned, and he winced. “Sorry.” He added “But I just - don’t trust what the Twins say, is all.” Harry nodded, and pulled his fringe back from his forehead - showing that infamous lightning bolt scar. “Ouch.” Stiles murmured, frowning. “That must’ve hurt like a-”

Scott hurriedly interrupted. Damn, he’d forgotten how against swearing he’d been as a kid. 

“So.” He said, loudly, and Stiles - Stiles flashed a smile, the same sort of one he’d flashed a lot when they were a little younger, whenever he’d deliberately tried to get them into trouble and it was a smile Scott hadn’t seen in a long, long time. He almost relished in this youthfulness, for a moment, before realising what it might mean. For Scott, it’s not bad, but Stiles was still very much grieving at eleven, still very much  _ angry.  _ And Malia wasn’t, well, human, then; coyote, and a young one at that. Scott’s not sure how this would affect them. But these are thoughts for another time. 

Ron didn’t say what he might’ve said if Stiles hadn’t spoken up, and Scott continued. Malia had taken her head from Stiles’ shoulder, but kept close to his side; seeking comfort from familiar touch, perhaps. A side-hug to keep her anchored to now, and not then. 

“So what’s wizarding life like?” Scott asked Ron, genuinely curious. “I mean, it’s magic. That’s pretty awesome.” 

Ron smiled, a little - an automatic reaction. “Yeah.” He agreed. “Thinking about it… yeah, it’s pretty neat at times.” 

Harry looked a little wistful. Knowing his family life, Scott sympathises. Ron turned to Harry. “So, I heard you went to live with muggles,” He started, then asked; “What are they like?” 

Harry’s expression soured utterly; his mouth twisted slightly and his brows furrowed, eyes darkening. “"Horrible -- well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are, though. Wish I'd had three wizard brothers." Harry’s countenance was rather gloomy - the wistfulness from earlier twisting more to envy. Scott felt bad for him, he really did. 

"Five," said Ron. He looked a little gloomy to Scott - but smelt of guilt; knowing what he does about Malia’s family, he probably isn’t too glad about his reservations on his own, Scott figures. 

"I'm the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left -- Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."

Ron pointed to the fat, grey animal sleeping on the seat next to him. “Scabbers was Percy’s first. Old, and useless; he’s hardly ever awake. Percy got an owl from my dad and  _ new _ robes for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff -- I mean, I got Scabbers instead.”

Scott winced; Ron ran his mouth a little before he thought, it seemed, and his embarrassment was almost palpable. 

Ron's ears went pink. He seemed to think he'd said too much, to Harry, because he went back to staring out of the window.

Stiles nodded. “Money’s a bitch.” He said, glancing at Scott - and Scott didn’t reprimand him, because he knew it too; arguably more than Stiles ever did before all the debts kept piling upwards. 

Ron looked at him, a little surprised. “Huh?” He frowned. “Debts from Eichen, hospital bills, electricity, gas, water… it adds up on a Sheriff’s salary.” He shrugged. “We’re not that bad though, given everything - we’re pretty lucky.”

Scott inclined his head. “Mom works in a hospital. Stiles is right; bill’s aren’t great. We’ve had a fair amount of food shortage in our time since - since my Dad left.” Scott shrugged as Stiles did. “We manage better than most, though.” 

Harry nodded. After all, he'd never had any money in his life until a month ago, and he told Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley's old clothes and never getting proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer Ron up, in the sense that he found out money was a problem for more people than just the Weasley’s, that it was a more widespread problem than he’d been lead to believe. 

Harry continued in the same vein; explaining to Ron about his introduction to the wizarding world at the redhead's curious prompting. 

"... and until Hagrid told me, I didn't know anything about being a wizard or about my parents or Voldemort--"

Ron gasped.

"What?" said Harry.

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people--"

Stiles scoffed, a little. “Yes,” He said, drily, “Harry wouldn’t say the name because he obviously knows about the Taboo, having grown up in a purely muggle household.”

Ron flushed; his ears went a little red. “Right.” He muttered. “Sorry, Harry.” His eyes flicked around, and the boy admitted; “It’s just I figured - well, I forgot; we’ve all grown up hearing about you, you know, one grand story after the next. My sister has a couple of the books, even.” Ron reddened further, if that was possible. “I mean, I never figured you to be battling Dragons every two days; there’s no way a kid could do that, but -” He flushed even  _ further,  _ Malia was wondering if he should get that checked out or not - “But, I - uh, still kind of thought you’d know all the cultural stuff. Like our, uh, ‘Merlin’s beard!’ and stuff like that. ‘Different kettle of grindylow.’ and the rest.” Ron scratched at his ear; embarrassed still, but redness fading. “I guess you don’t, huh?” He asked rhetorically; a little sheepish, Stiles can tell. 

Harry nodded, grinning. “Think of it this way; you can guide us through the stuff we should already know.”

Ron blinked, looked pleased. “I mean,” Harry continued, “there's probably loads of basic stuff we’ll need to know but won’t for class and all that. I bet… I bet I’m one of the worst.” He faltered, frowning. 

"You won't be. There's loads of people who come from Muggle families and they learn quick enough." Ron responded, almost scoffing at the thought. 

“I probably will be.” Malia said drily. “Doubtful.” Stiles looked amused. “You’ll be glad to know Maths is only optional and only available after second year.” 

Malia immediately brightened. “Fuck yes.” She grinned, happy at the thought. Stiles smiled - a soft thing, more a result of hers than anything else. 

Harry frowned, looked thoughtful. Scott was a little worried at the notion of no maths whatsoever, but perhaps wizards didn’t need it the way muggles do. 

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past. Stiles and Malia seemed to have a silent conversation, and every now and then Scott would join in. It was a little odd to Harry, but Ron didn’t see anything strange; Fred and George could have entire conversations in the span of a single shared glance, who’s to say these can’t too?

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Harry, who hadn't had any breakfast, leapt to his feet quite literally, but Ron's ears went pink again and he muttered that he'd brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the corridor.

“What kind of sandwiches?” Malia asked, sniffing. “Corned beef.” Ron replied, reluctant. “Mum always forgets…” He muttered. 

Harry came back into the compartment and unloaded an armful of treats onto the seat. Scabbers was fished out from under the mess rather half-heartedly, and Ron looked amusedly up at Harry. “Hungry, are you?” He asked, glancing perhaps a little too obviously at the food next to him. 

“Starving,” Harry replied - worryingly, it was likely to be literal. He took a huge bite out of a pumpkin pasty as evidence. 

Ron stared mournfully at his sandwiches, unwrapped them.

“Trade you for one of these,” Harry offered, holding up another pasty in his free hand. “Go on-”

"You don't want this, it's all dry," said Ron. "She hasn't got much time," he added quickly, "you know, with five of us."

“I’ll take it.” Malia said, suddenly. “I like cow.” She blinked, frowned. Ron looked at her, hesitantly. 

"Go on, have a pasty," encouraged Harry, who had never had anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, Scott, Stiles and Malia, eating their way through all Harry's pasties, cakes, and candies - though Malia had chosen to opt for the corned beef sandwiches, discarding the bread and instead quickly finishing off the beef. “Not bad.” She mused. “Bit overcooked, though.”

Stiles snorted, sniffed at a licorice wand before shrugging and testing it. “Eugh.” He muttered, dropping it onto the discarded bread. “Well yeah.” He grinned, responding to Malia. “You prefer  _ rare,  _ after all.” 

She laughed, grinning, eyes twinkling madly with shared secret laughter. 

Scott sighed, smiling. 

"What are these?" Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs. "They're not really frogs, are they?" He was starting to feel that nothing would surprise him.

"No," said Ron. "But see what the card is. I'm missing Agrippa."

"What?"

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know - need to stop forgetting that,” he frowned, muttering, before moving on, louder- “- Chocolate Frogs have cards, inside them, you know, to collect - famous witches and wizards. I've got about five hundred, but I haven't got Agrippa or Ptolemy."

“We know about him.” Stiles said, amused. “A, uh, greek guy, I think, who tried to merge the egyptian and greek pantheon?”

Ron blinked at him. “Close.” He replied. “Can’t quite remember. I think he tried to merge the magic styles and succeeded; I mean, why else would he get on a card?”

Stiles shrugged. Scott shook his head. 

“Wikipedia’s your friend?” Malia asked knowingly, and he grinned in reply. 

Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a man's face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.

"So this is Dumbledore!" said Harry.

“Can I have a look?” Malia asked, interested. “Sure.” Harry agreed, handing the card over to her. 

“Can I have a frog?” Ron asked, and Harry nodded. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Dumbledore; he’s our Headmaster, it’s on our school letter!” he added, astonished. 

“It’s not that I hadn’t heard of him,” Harry corrected, “I just didn’t know what he looked like.”

‘Oh’, Ron’s face seemed to say. He opened the Chocolate Frog to see what card he’d gotten. “Ah, damn - Morgana. No, I’ve gotten loads of her - ‘bout six. Harry, d’you want it? You could start collecting.” Ron offered. Harry took it happily, smiling in thanks. 

Malia turned over the Dumbledore card, and Stiles read over her shoulder. 

_ ALBUS DUMBLEDORE _ _   
_ _ CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS _ _   
_ __ Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

“Random.” Stiles muttered and Malia chuckled. 

Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped.

"Help yourself," said Harry.

Malia turned the card back over, about to hand it to Harry when she noticed something. “Uh, Ron?” She asked, frowning. “Yeah?” He responded, muffled through a mouthful of chocolate frog. “Are the pictures supposed to disappear?”

Worried, Harry took the card back and stared at it. 

“Yes - she’s right; He’s gone!”

"Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," said Ron. "He'll be back. Dumbledore’s a busy man, I’d say. Got loads of paintings all over the place… maybe he’s just gone to fill in for another Dumbledore.” He guessed. Harry looked amazed. “You know, in the Muggle world, people just stay put in photos."

“Really?” Ron asked, “They don’t move at all?” 

Scott nodded, confirming Harry’s words. “Weird!” Ron sounded as amazed as Harry had looked. Scott supposed it makes sense; what would be normal for ‘muggles’ would be alien to the wizarding population. 

Harry was busy grabbing as many chocolate frogs as possible, staring at all the famous witches and wizards he’d probably never heard about before in his life. Stiles spied a box of jelly beans, and grinned. “What’re those?” He asked Ron - falsely, because he knows, but needed, as he can’t be seen to know more than he should. “Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. You want to be careful with those," Ron warned them. "When they say every flavor, they mean every flavor -- you know, you get all the ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George reckons he had a booger-flavored one once."

“Perfect.” Stiles said. Glancing at Harry, who shrugged and nodded, Stiles grabbed the box and opened it. “Show us how it’s done then.” He goaded, offering the box to Ron. Ron looked at it warily, but took one regardless - a muted green one in colour, and Malia had a hard time distinguishing the smell from all the others slathered over it. 

"Bleaaargh -- see? Sprouts." Ron’s nose wrinkled, and Stiles grinned. 

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron wouldn't touch, which turned out to be pepper. Ron was hesitant, but actually managed to get chocolate, which he said, “Wasn’t half bad.” Stiles managed to not get any of the terrible flavours, and Malia got -  _ fuck yes  _ \- venison; deer. 

Scott, the poor boy, got earwax. And thus endeth their experimentation. 

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills.

There was a knock on the door of their compartment and a round-faced boy who Stiles assumed was Neville Longbottom entered. He looked tearful - a far cry from the man he’d become. Scott rather thought they got his look exactly right in the movies for his younger years. He’s a little intrigued to see if that’ll stay true as time goes on. 

"Sorry," Neville said, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

When they shook their heads, he wailed, "I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"

"He'll turn up," said Harry. The others also offered their condolences.

"Yes," said the boy miserably. "Well, if you see him..."

He left.

“Well.” Stiles commented. “That happened.” 

Ron snorted. Scott sighed, and they moved on. 

"Don't know why he's so bothered," said Ron. "If I'd brought a toad I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk."

The rat was snoozing on Ron's lap.

"He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference," said Ron in disgust. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work."

“What was it?” 

“Some rhyme the Twins said might work - but it’s the Twins, so I should know better.” Ron sighed. 

“The rhyme?” Stiles asked. It had been a good rhyme. 

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow." He said. Stiles laughed. “Good one.” Ron shrugged. “Yeah, well. The Twins made it, so.”

Before anything more could be said, the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth. Stiles’ eyes lit up, and Scott blinked. 

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," said Ron.

“Well?” She asked. “Anyone else?” 

They all shook their heads, mutely. Malia spoke up. “It’s on the train, right? So just go find one of the older years to help find it. What’s it - a prefect or something? Might know a spell or two to get a hold of it.” 

Neville brightened. “Y-yes, of course!” He exclaimed, “Thank you!” The boy rushed out, before leaving quickly. The bushy haired girl huffed. 

“You can stay if you’d like,” Scott offered. “Go on; move the sweets guys.”

Harry shrugged and pulled a few towards him. Ron did the same.

The girl wrinkled her nose at Ron’s rat; probable stories of plague colouring her opinion. When she sat, she brushed out her skirt and peered at all of them. 

“Well, I’m Hermione Granger.” She enunciated - snobby, perhaps - a little aloof. She sounded almost exactly like her movie counterpart, even though her looks were vastly different. “You all?” 

“Stiles.” Stiles offered, and she pursed her lips at the name. “Malia Tate.” Malia said, then glanced at Scott, who told the girl “Scott McCall.”

“Ron Weasley.” Ron gave, muffled by a pumpkin pasty. 

Her lips thinned further. “Pleasure.” She drew out, before looking over to Harry. “And you are?” 

“Harry Potter,” He replied, bracing himself. He wasn’t wrong to do so.

"Are you really?" said Hermione. "I know all about you, of course -- I got a few extra books, for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century."   
  
"Am I?" said Harry, feeling dazed.

“Oi.” Stiles said, frowning at her. “You know all about him, do you? Know things written down in books; like how he fights dragons on a regular basis and lives in luxury, yeah?”

Hermione frowned at him. “Well, those are just fiction.”

“And you think most of those history books aren’t conjecture?” He responded. “Course they are. No-one knows what happened that night; I’ve read those accounts, the ones that discuss possibilities but don’t say anything’s proven because nothing can be. Popular theory - not the most, that’s the one where Harry did it all - is that his mom did something with her magic and her sacrifice to protect him, which caused You-Know-Who to fall.”

Hermione blinked. “Well,” She started. “I haven’t read those yet.”

“No,” he sat back, satisfied, “you haven’t.” 

Harry had recovered by now - and, perhaps, that conversation was just meant to be a distraction. 

Hermione caught a glance at Harry’s watch and balked, a little. “Goodness - look at the time, I expect we’ll be arriving soon; you should all get into uniform.”

The girl then got up and walked to the door. Before she left she glanced at Ron, before sighing. “You’ve got some dirt on your nose, you know.” 

With that, she left properly. 

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron.

“Can’t make sure of that.” Stiles replied, knowingly. Ron narrowed his eyes at him, but dismissed it, as Harry spoke. 

"What house are your brothers in?" asked Harry.

"Gryffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. "Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

"That's the house Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?"   
  
"Yeah," said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, looking depressed.

“Well, we know where you two won’t be going.” Malia murmured, frowning. “Let’s decide to be in the house the first of us gets in, yeah?” She addressed Scott and Stiles, who nodded.

“Can’t be sure of that,” Ron warned, echoing Stiles’ words from earlier. “I’m not sure how it’s done exactly, but people sometimes go where they weren’t expected to.”

Harry nodded, and then tried to change the subject - perhaps noticing his newest friend’s dour mood. 

"Charlie's in Romania studying dragons, and Bill's in Africa doing something for Gringotts," said Ron. "Did you hear about Gringotts? It's been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don't suppose you get that with the Muggles -- someone tried to rob a high security vault."

Harry stared.

"Really? What happened to them?"

"Nothing, that's why it's such big news. They haven't been caught. My dad says it must've been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don't think they took anything, that's what's odd. 'Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who's behind it."

Harry frowned, and his mood seemed to darken. Ron noticed this, and abruptly asked him a question. “"What's your Quidditch team?"

"Er -- I don't know any." Harry confessed. The other three felt just as interested, and nodded at Ron’s inquisitorial look.

"What!" Ron seemed dumbfounded. "Oh, you wait, it's the best game in the world -- " And he was off, explaining all about the four balls and the positions of the seven players, describing famous games he'd been to with his brothers and the broomstick he'd like to get if he had the money. He was just taking them through the finer points of the game when the compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn't Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this time.

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop. He was looking at Harry with a lot more interest than he'd shown back in Diagon Alley.

Stiles was glaring at the three with a simmering kind of distaste - and honestly, Scott didn’t blame him overmuch. Malia got the message about them, and frowned in their direction. 

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. Both of them were thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they looked like bodyguards.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

“Seriously?” Stiles said, abruptly. The blonde’s eyes snapped to him and he sneered. “And what might your name be, then?” 

“Polish and far more ridiculous,” He assured the pre-teen. “But at least I don’t introduce myself like James Bond. I don’t have that sort of ego.”

The blond frowned at him, then became dismissive. 

He glanced to Ron, and leapt at an easy target. 

“No need to ask who you are.” He sneered again. “My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

“Just goes to show how much they love their children, doesn’t it?” Malia snapped. “What does it say about your family, hoarding all that money and not putting it back into the system, eh? Looking down on those less fortunate who have to work harder for what they have?”

Stiles blinked, then recovered and nodded. Scott grimaced - this was unlikely to go well. 

Malfoy sneered at them. “At least my family’s all magic. What can you say about it, mudblood?”

“At least they cared about me.” She said, coldly. He huffed and turned back to Harry. 

"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." Malfoy said.

He held out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he said coolly.

Draco Malfoy didn't go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

Both Harry and Ron stood up. The other three, not to be left out, had done so as well, and quicker to boot. 

"Say that again," Ron said, his face as red as his hair. Malia approved (as, of course, did Stiles.)

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Malfoy sneered.

"Unless you get out now," said Harry, more bravely than he felt, because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot bigger than him or Ron, Stiles or Scott or Malia.

Having no such fears, Stiles’ gaze was dark, Malia’s eyes threatening to burn blue. “You really should leave. Before someone gets hurt.” Scott advised; kinder sounding than anything anyone else would have said - but that’s Scott for you. Honourable. 

Malfoy sneered. The brutes cracked their knuckles - a childish show of intimidation that might’ve worked if they weren’t, you know, children.

"But we don't feet like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all our food and you still seem to have some."

Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to Ron -- Ron leapt forward, but before he'd so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell.

Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into Goyle's knuckle -- Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung Scabbers round and round, howling, and when Scabbers finally flew off and hit the window, all three of them disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought there were more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps they'd heard footsteps, because a second later, Hermione Granger had come in.

Stiles was too busy laughing to pay her much mind, and Malia was snickering and grinning right alongside him. Scott just sighed, longsuffering. 

"What has been going on?" she said, looking at the sweets all over the floor and Ron picking up Scabbers by his tail, at Stiles collapsed on the seat, laughter petering off and Malia snickering about something.

"I think he's been knocked out," Ron said to Harry, referring to the rat. He looked closer at Scabbers. "No -- I don't believe it -- he's gone back to sleep."

And so he had.

"You've met Draco before?" Scott asked. Ron looked at him, scandalised, but Scott didn’t understand why.

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.

"I've heard of his family," said Ron darkly. "They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's father didn't need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side." He turned to Hermione, who was still in the doorway, confused. "Can we help you with something?"

"You'd better hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we're nearly there. You haven't been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!" She demanded, confusion turning to righteous anger. 

"Scabbers has been fighting, not us," said Ron, scowling at her. "Would you mind leaving while we change? And, uh, you too Malia."

"All right -- I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," said Hermione in a sniffy voice. “Come on, Malia.”

Ron glared at her as she left. Malia shrugged and followed after her. Harry peered out of the window. It was getting dark, he could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.

He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their long black robes. Ron's were a bit short for him, you could see his sneakers underneath them. 

“Don’t you have yours?” Ron asked the other two, who shared worried glances. “Ah.” Scott started, “No.”

Ron frowned. “That’s not good. Where’s your luggage - did you put it in another compartment?” He asked. Scott and Stiles shook their heads. 

Harry grimaced. He hadn’t forgotten the three appeared into the compartment - he just hadn’t realised the significance of that. There’s magic, after all - who’s to say people can’t appear in places they weren’t before? Though the lack of any trunk was a tad suspicious, he had to admit. 

Before anything could be sorted out, a voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Malia appeared in the doorway, then entered the compartment - school robe hung a little uncomfortably tight on her frame. “Hermione let me borrow one of hers.” she told them. “Lucky.” Stiles replied.

Due to the announcement, Harry's stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he saw, looked pale under his freckles. Scott felt more curiosity than anything, Stiles wasn’t sure what to think and Malia decided to enjoy the strangeness of it all, rather than focus on the fact that they’re as far from Beacon Hills as it is possible to be. They all crammed their pockets (if they had any) with the last of the sweets and joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out onto a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here! Alright there, Harry?"

Stiles grinned, and Scott would recognise this half-giant anywhere. The movies really were spot on with this one, he thinks.

Hagrid's big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

"C'mon, follow me -- any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. “Nice forest,” Malia muttered, eyes scanning what the non-wolves couldn’t really see. Aside from that, nobody spoke much - though Neville sniffed once or twice, and other general people-noises could be heard.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Oooooh!" and some whistling. Stiles grinned again, muttered “ _ Awesome.”  _ Malia looked impressed, and Scott thought it looked pretty cool - the movies were at least partly correct, it seems (though the earlier ones were more accurate.)

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville and Hermione, whereas Scott, Malia and Stiles claimed a boat for themselves - as they were an extra three students, nobody else needed to go in one with them.

"Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. "Right then -- FORWARD!"

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. Stiles itched to mutter to Malia and Scott about the building - but they were in earshot of everyone else, so he kept his mouth shut. The castle towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; some bent their heads - since they were all far shorter than Hagrid, and wouldn’t really need to as he does, but a few would still follow his lead - and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

“Eugh.” A brunette next to them muttered, frowning - she brushed some loose leaves from her face. “They should really trim that.” The girl next to her agreed, running her hands through her hair. 

Malia spat out a few leaves. “That can’t be safe.” She said, finally. “I swear I got scratches from the twigs and shit.”

A soft gasp from Hermione and a quelling glance made Malia roll her eyes, but fall silent.

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad?" said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them.

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. 

“See, we knew you’d find him.” Scott said, as Neville came back to stand slightly in front of Hermione - who Scott was stood next to. Neville shot a smile at him.

After that, all the soon-to-be pupils clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

 


	2. The Sorting, A Feast, And The Start Of Things.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sorting happens, and as expected houses don't change, not really. The three from Beacon Hills get placed with the rest, and the chapter progresses in a similar, but not quite the same, direction as it would have sans the extra Americans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much change here, but that's because it's the start. There'll be more as we progress.

 

Fate was rather pleased with how things were looking down in ‘verse 3-1-45, subset of ‘verses 300-True-Alpha and 100-Chosen-One, so far. Pity she won’t be able to directly mess with things via her host until next year, but perhaps this is for the best. At least she can still influence emotions… by writing in people’s fates (not to be confused with their Fates, of course) that because of something they’ll feel something. But yes, she can’t really interfere directly, not yet.

As it were...

* * *

 

The sorting was to happen soon.

This meant Harry was nervous. Mind you, not as nervous as he would have been in universe 100-Chosen-One, but still nervous.

However, these nerves were overpowered by the sheer strangeness of three of the friends he’d picked up.

Ron and Harry were only slightly surprised by the ghosts that had appeared, however it appeared that the three friends were either utterly terrified, or utterly paranoid.

(Harry understood; after all, how could he not with his childhood?)

You see, the three had jumped, then put themselves in defensive positions. Scott at the front, Malia to his right, and Stiles was to his left. “Where’d he get that?” Ron asked loudly, frowning at the metal bat the tallest one was holding. Harry blinked, because he hadn’t seen it. “Hell if I know.” he muttered. Ron shrugged and nodded. Stiles himself had also blinked, looked down and muttered “huh,” tapped the bat a few times to check if it was real. Malia frowned, and Scott wasn’t too sure on how it had appeared, but was glad Stiles had something to protect himself with if needs be.

Before the three could do anything further, a woman with a severe demeanour appeared at the top of the stairs. Stiles’ bat disappeared back to wherever it came from - to the confusion of all who’d seen it, including Stiles himself - and the three turned around to face the front, Scott behind and between the other two. The woman looked to them sharply, and only Scott looked a little sheepish. Stiles shrugged and looked around, and Malia didn’t react.

Pursing her lips, the lady introduced herself as Professor McGonagall, and explained a few surface things about hogwarts, before leading the group of first years, including Harry (after Ron had grabbed his arm and dragged him, because Harry had stilled at ‘family’; considering his was never as nice as it should have been and he didn’t want Hogwarts to be a repeat performance, said stilling should be perfectly understandable) along with them. The two of them ended up behind the three - fairly obviously - American students and, rather than in alphabetical order, the line was called up in the order that they were standing.

“Malia Tate-Hale.” The woman called out. “It’s just Tate.” The eleven year old informed the Professor, before sitting down and jamming the Hat over her head. A few moments later, “Gryffindor!” was yelled out and she took off the hat, then stood to the side. The professor gestured to the red and gold table, but the girl looked to Stiles, who nodded, before she went there. Scott McCall was called to the front, and the hat was on his head for much longer before calling out “Gryffindor!” again. The professor then attempted to call up the third one.

“...” Strangely, the teacher was silent; staring down confusedly at the parchment that she was holding. “It’s Stiles.” The boy told her as he walked calmly to the stool. “Stiles Stilinski.” He repeated. The woman’s brow cleared as the parchment was updated, and she nodded.

The hat was on his head for much longer than the others, and many had grown restless by the time it begrudgingly called out “Gryffindor!” Happily, the boy took off the hat and jogged over to the table, Scott clapping him on the shoulder and Malia smiling at him.

The rest of the sorting came and went, with Harry’s seemingly, at least to himself, taking even longer than Stiles’ had  - if that was possible.

Harry sat next to Ron, across from the others, and caught the tail end of Scott’s question.

“-you guys almost get put in?” Scott finished asking. “None.” Ron replied proudly. Nodding, Malia responded, “Liar. I was almost put in Hufflepuff, or Slytherin.” She told Scott. Ron scowled at her, before shrugging it off and digging into his meal. Stiles grinned. “You tell us yours Scott.” Scott smiled. “This one, obviously, but also Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Slytherin was considered, but the hat decided no to that. You?” He asked of Stiles, ignoring the looks he gained from that bit of information. “Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw.” Stiles listed off, grinning. “‘Course, I asked to come here, ‘cause of you guys, and he said I’d fit right in - even if he wanted to put me elsewhere. What about you, Harry?” the boy enquired. Feeling emboldened from the fact that the others, his potential friends, had been offered the same, he responded “All of them, as well. It really wanted Slytherin though.” Harry nudged Ron. “What about you?” Ron glanced nervously down the table, and Harry noticed his brothers were listening in and failing to be discrete about it. “Uhm…” Ron started. “A few.” He finished - perhaps, Harry thought, afraid what his brothers might think. Stiles nodded. “Honestly, this house system is stupid.” The older years who’d been listening in looked offended, the youngers intrigued. “You really think so? I mean, if it was, wouldn’t it have been abolished by now? After all, nobody wants a system that doesn’t work.” The aloof girl from the train put in. Scott inclined his head. Malia rolled her eyes. “Sure people can gain from corrupted systems. People lose; but other’s gain. It’s how it works.”

“Now now.” An older red-head put in; Ron muttered “Prat” under his breath so Scott figured this must be Percy. “I’m certain Professor Dumbledore would have the system abolished if it was as problematic as you seem to think. You all best be quiet; Headmaster Dumbledore will be speaking, and then the feast will start.” And with that their conversation was put on hold, as Dumbledore got up to speak to the hall. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.

"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

He sat back down. A large majority of students clapped and cheered. The teachers were more polite; a few claps and nothing else. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or not.

"Is he -- a bit mad?" he asked Percy uncertainly.

“Seems it,” Stiles muttered, and Malia smirked. Scott sighed - Hermione, who was next to Stiles on his right, looked scandalised.

"Mad?" said Percy airily. "He's a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?"

Harry's mouth fell open. The sight might’ve been amusing, if not for the reason behind it. Stiles stared at the table. Malia had never seen so much food all at once in her life. The dishes in front of them all were now piled with food. Harry had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.

“Peppermint Humbugs?” Scott frowned. “What’re they?”

He got a fair few incredulous stares. “Pity the Americans,” Stiles said drily, “explain your British food.”

A few looks of realisation came across the faces of those within earshot.

“Is that why you’ve got not robes?” The same brunette who had complained about the ivy curtain asked of them. “Yeah,” Stiles latched on. “Yeah - we don’t need school, uh - robes, back home.”

“Lucky.” Another girl said. “These things are awful.”

Malia had to agree with that assessment; they really weren’t very nice. Scott could tell the movies got this part rather wrong, putting it mildly.

“At least back home I wouldn’t’a gotten a dress.” A small irish boy commented, to the amusement of many a muggle-raised witch and wizard. Hermione frowned. “They’re robes, and I presume it’s quite the normal fashion here.”

The black haired indian girl - assumedly Parvati Patil, Scott was fairly certain - snorted. “At least back home we wear _stylish_ robes - not these bags.” She huffed. “Don’t assume you know everything from a few books, Granger.”

Hermione frowned at Parvati, but before anything could escalate further, a ghost wandered over - through the table. “That does look good,” He commented on Harry’s steak, frowning mournfully.

"Can't you - ?"

"I haven't eaten for nearly five hundred years," said the ghost. "I don't need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't think I've introduced myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower."

"I know who you are!" said Ron suddenly. "My brothers told me about you -- you're Nearly Headless Nick!"

"I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy -- " the ghost began stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus Finnigan interrupted.

"Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?"  
Scott could have sworn movie Hermione said that, so he supposes lines got switched around a bit in the changeover.

Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little chat wasn't going at all the way he wanted.

"Like this," he said irritably. He seized his left ear and pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell onto his shoulder as if it was on a hinge. Someone had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on many of their faces, excluding of course Stiles, Malia, and Scott - as the three had, annoyingly, seen worse - Nearly Headless Nick flipped his head back onto his neck, coughed, and said, "So -- new Gryffindors! I hope you're going to help us win the house championship this year? Gryffindors have never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have got the cup six years in a row! The Bloody Baron's becoming almost unbearable -- he's the Slytherin ghost."  
  
Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood. He was right next to Malfoy who, Harry was pleased to see, didn't look too happy with the seating arrangements. Malia followed his gaze and grinned.   
"How did he get covered in blood?" asked Seamus with great interest. Stiles would likely have as well, if he hadn’t already known the reason for it.

"I've never asked," said Nearly Headless Nick delicately. It is a rather touchy subject, Scott figured. Not something you’d just bring up in polite conversation.

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, and Malia had hoarded the venison for long enough, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them as sparkling clean as before the meal. A moment later the desserts appeared; blocks of ice cream in every flavor you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate eclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-O, rice pudding...  
  
As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, Stiles to some apple pie, Malia to a doughnut and Scott decided to try the trifle, the talk turned to their families.  
  
"I'm half-and-half," said Seamus. "Half-blood, I heard they call it. Me dad's a Muggle. Mom didn't tell him she was a witch 'til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him."

"I'd say," Stiles muttered, frowning at his pie.

Many others laughed. A few looked on with concern - because sometimes, that didn’t turn out so well.

"What about you, Neville?" asked Ron.

"Well, my gran brought me up and she's a witch," said Neville, "but the family thought I was all-Muggle for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me -- he pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned -- but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced -- all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here -- they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad."

Malia frowned at him, and Stiles glared angry holes into his pie. Scott was fairly worried that no-one seemed to find issue with this behaviour.

Across from each other, Percy and Hermione were talking about lessons, with Scott half-listening, partly interested in it all; "I do hope they start right away, there's so much to learn, I'm particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something into something else, of course, it's supposed to be very difficult - "; " -You'll be starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of thing...".

Harry, who was looking a little sleepy to Malia, looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet and Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.

It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes -- and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead.

"Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head.

“Woah, Harry.” Stiles said, eyes snapping over to the bespectacled boy in question.

"What is it?" asked Percy.

"N-nothing."

“Didn’t sound like nothing.” Malia disagreed. “Your scar hurt often?”

“No, not that I can remember.” Harry replied, bewildered. For him, the pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look -- a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all.

Frowning, "Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" Harry asked Percy.

Stiles glanced over to the redhead.

"Oh, you know Quirrell already do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous - that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to - everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape." Percy pursed his lips, frowning in disapproval. “I suppose you’ve got to understand something in order to counter it, however…” He added, dubious.

Malia kept an eye on Harry, who watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn't look at him again.

At last, the desserts too disappeared, to the displeasure of many, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent - with some hands semi-discretely dipping into pockets, hiding away confectionery for later.

"Ahem -- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.” Dumbledore announced. “First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils... and a few of our older students would also do well to remember that."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.” The old wizard continued, “Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.” He paused.

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did. The three supposed ‘transfer’ students; Stiles, Scott, Malia - shared concerned glances.

Harry glanced around, saw the serious faces. "He's not serious?" he muttered to Percy.

"Must be," said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. "It's odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere -- the forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least.”

“Maybe it’s too dangerous?” The brunette girl from earlier pondered - glancing around the table, it seemed this thought was shared by many. It didn’t bode well, that’s for certain.

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed. Scott blinked, and Stiles laughed quietly.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"

“This is a terrible idea,” Mallia announced. “It’s great,” Stiles disagreed - still grinning from amusement.

And the school bellowed:

_"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,_

_Teach us something please,_

_Whether we be old and bald_

_Or young with scabby knees,_

_Our heads could do with filling_

_With some interesting stuff,_

_For now they're bare and full of air,_

_Dead flies and bits of fluff!_

_So teach us things worth knowing,_

_Bring back what we've forgot, just do your best, we'll do the rest,_

_And learn until our brains all rot!"_  
  
A jovial feeling filled the room, and everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and once they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest. Scott had never seen anything quite like it - the three were enjoying themselves rather thoroughly, given the circumstances.

"Ah, music," Dumbledore said, wiping his eyes. He was too far away to be able to tell if there were genuine tears or not - Malia thought it might actually be likely.  "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. The people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed - and a few of their group, namely Seamus, a young dark skinned boy named Dean Thomas, Parvati and the brunette, responded to things said.

Percy led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries, which was just as cool as Stiles had imagined it to be - and just as impractical. They climbed more staircases, many yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just wondering how much farther they had to go (“This place is huge,” He muttered. “What did you expect?” Ron replied) when they came to a sudden halt - a few stumbling and having to be steadied by those nearby.

“Woah there,” Stiles grunted, pulling Neville back to standing. “Steady.” The boy muttered a thanks, and they looked to see what the commotion was.

A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair ahead of them, and as Percy took a step toward them they started throwing themselves at him.

Stiles snorted. Malia looked around, to see if the cause was visible. Scott winced.

"Peeves," Percy whispered to the first years. "A poltergeist." He raised his voice, "Peeves -- show yourself."

A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered.

"Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?" Percy demanded - and he got the result he wanted.

There was a pop - a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks.

"Oooooooh!" he said, with an evil cackle. "Ickle Firsties! What fun!"

He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked - some more dramatic than others; the brunette (who _must_ be Lavender, she’s the only girl left) dove to the ground and Seamus dropped like a stone.

"Go away, Peeves, or the Baron'll hear about this, I mean it!" barked Percy.

Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on Neville's head. They heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed.

“Ah!” Neville threw his hands over his head. Stiles dragged him away from the walking sticks, and Hermione came over to make sure he was alright.

"You want to watch out for Peeves," warned Percy, as they set off again - after making sure Neville didn’t have too bad of a bruising. Patil offered some soothing poultice she could give him when they got to the tower, and Neville accepted, gratefully.  "The Bloody Baron's the only one who can control him, he won't even listen to us prefects. Here we are."

And indeed, they had arrived. At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.

"Password?" she said. Scott was just glad she wasn’t singing. That had been… ill advised, in the movies.

"Caput Draconis," said Percy, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all scrambled through it - Neville needed a leg up, Lavender nearly tripped over her robe and Patil held her steady, complaining loudly, again, about the _bags_ they were forced to wear -- and found themselves in the Gryffindor common room; a cosy, round room full of squashy armchairs.

“Well this is bright.” Stiles commented. And it was - the room was red, gold, yellow, orange. There was some black, but it wasn’t nearly enough to dull the interior. Malia and Scott winced - their more sensitive eyes not exactly enjoying the onslaught.

Percy directed the girls through one door to their dormitory and the boys through another. Malia scowled but hugged the other Americans goodbye and nodded to Harry and Ron, before wandering up after Patil - who had been the last to ascend the stairs.

At the top of a spiral staircase - they were obviously in one of the towers -- the boys found their beds at last: five four-posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk much, they pulled on their pyjamas and fell into bed.

"Great food, isn't it?" Ron muttered to Harry through the hangings. "Get off, Scabbers! He's chewing my sheets."

Harry was going to ask Ron if he'd had any of the treacle tart, but he fell asleep almost at once.

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor Quirrell's turban, which kept talking to him, telling him he must transfer to Slytherin at once, because it was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn't want to be in Slytherin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried to pull it off but it tightened painfully -- and there was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with it -- then Malfoy turned into the hook-nosed teacher, Snape, whose laugh became high and cold -- there was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating  and shaking.

He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke next day, he didn't remember the dream at all.

* * *

 

“Scotty.” Stiles whispered, tapping lightly on the wooden frame of Scott’s bed. The now-a-boy in question sat up, looked over. “Malia’s down in the common room. Figured we should chat, you know, but there’s too many portraits, so she’s exploring the corridor just outside to find a room or something we can use.”

Scott nodded; this sounded like a good, and rather necessary, plan. Because they really do need to talk about the stuff that’s gone on today - how they’re in _Harry Potter,_ and how it’s unlikely that they’ll ever see their friends and family again.

“Yeah, alright.” He agreed, swung his legs out of bed and stood. “Let’s go down then.” Stiles led the way; down the staircase and into the common room, then out the door.

“You too? What happened to the honour of the youth; sneaking out on your first night, why, it’s unheard of!” The Fat Lady scolded them, but as a guard portrait, it’s not like she could got tell a teacher, so the two ignored her even if Scott sent her an apologetic smile.

“Malia?” Stiles called out quietly, and the girl popped her head out from behind a nearby tapestry. “There’s a small but big enough space back here to talk,” She told them, quiet. “Come on,” She jerked her head backwards in a ‘follow me’ kind of gesture, and ducked behind the tapestry again. The corners of Stiles’ mouth pulled down, he glanced at Scott, eyes lit up. “Useful,” he murmured, before going behind the tapestry.

Scott inclined his head, and followed suit.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fair amount of this chapter was lifted from my editing of it in Virgil's Log, if you were wondering - though most of you probably haven't read that, heh. However I've changed enough and added a load to this that makes it different enough to post, I feel. Just thought you should know.


	3. Fate, a break, and The Potions Lesson.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Fate's family are the most annoying bunch of literal bastards she's ever met.
> 
> /Gah/, her brother's the /worst/.
> 
> Additionally, there is a Potions lesson, gained detention, lost house points, and a conversation.

Fate hates being interrupted.  _Especially_ when important things are going down, because during those times she should be monitoring the Paths the pawns - sorry, Mortals chose to follow and if they will lead to their Fates and Destinies (if they have one, or multiple, that is.)

Yet, apparently Chance hates her (as her twin, sibling rivalry is rather likely - given that they govern the opposite things; obviously, Fate and Chance - the things named after them) as this is exactly what happens.

Specifically, the bastard known as her older brother and superior in all things, Destiny, happens to barge on into her room like he owns the place, the bastard. 

Did she mention he's a bastard? Because he is. Literally speaking, they all are, but Destiny fits the bill regarding personality the most out of all of them.

"Little Sister," He announces. "I hear you've gotten yourself into yet _another_ spot of bother." 

The Higher Power plants himself down on her ottoman. Damn him, she _just_ vaporised the bacteria on that thing. Now she'll have to clean it  _again._

_Bastard._

"Brother," Fate acknowledges his existence, then says, "Fuck off."

Because what's a little spat between Higher Powers? Usually the end of a 'verse or two, but their spat has been going on for millennia now, with only _one_ subset of a major 'verse being Corrupted. Due to _his_ ire, mind you - Fate's the semi-decent sibling out of the two of them.

In truth, she's rather bored of their disagreement, actually - but Fate can't seem to let it go. Perhaps it's her Destiny, she thinks, drily, to never get along with this ass-hat that's sitting on what was a perfectly good ottoman but will now need molecular reconstruction. 

 _Bastard._ She keeps her crystal balls in there!

He shakes his head at her, likely mocking and wholly condescending in nature. 

"Now now, sister." Destiny drawls. "Don't be like that... I'm here to help you out."

Fate freezes, slightly.  _I'm here to help you out!_ Echoes in her head; a younger Destiny, a younger Fate - friends, playing in their playground, having fun. Young, and carefree - and  _careless,_ and he's a  _Bastard_ for what he did. 

What he made her Mortals do. 

_I'm here to help you out!_

" _Fuck. Off."_ She hisses, eyes flashing bright gold. "And get out. Brother, I mean it."

Fate's voice is cold. Her brother brings out the worst in her, she knows - but what else is she to do? He  _never listens._

Destiny throws up his hands, a sign of surrender but his smile is sharp. Everything about her brother is fake, she knows - but she didn't always know this. Her memories hurt to think on for too long, these centuries. 

"Just try not to get Mother's attention," He says. "Or Father's. They wouldn't be too happy with this...  _mess,_ you've caused."

Destiny is serious, of course he is. If anything can force him to be a decent Power, it's the threat of their Parents' ire coming down on them. "I  _am_ here to help, sister, and I won't have some fun with your little pawns this time." His mouth quirks at the corner - a small little smirk, but it's there and he's  _such_ a fucking  _Bastard._

"Fine." Fate snaps - because she hates him, but she does need a helping hand, and Fate's not about to enlist Chance, _Father_  forbid, or any of their other siblings, so Destiny's what she's got and she'll just have to deal with that. 

Life and Death, pray for her. Good  _Mother,_ things aren't going to go well.

Her brother smiles, slow and smug - like he just won the lottery or some shit. 

"Wonderful, dear sister." He says. "Shall we begin?" 

Fate sighs, and turns around, casts the video from her laptop to the projector.

What? Mundane tech is  _super_ useful if you can get it to interface with your Powers without anything going wonky. Fate managed, so she gets the cool stuff. It's great, being the cool sister. Really. Until Chance asks her to fix his fucking tablet  _yet again,_ or Death requests another batch of soul canisters. At least she makes some credit for later favours, Fate supposes. It could be much, much more tedious.

She could have  _Order's_ job. That's a heck of a lot more paperwork than even Fate gets, and she gets a huge-ass pile every second, Good  _Mother_ that's  _insane._

Regardless, Fate presses play on the video. The important event has passed - because fate isn't like her sister Time, she can't actually pause existence whenever she feels like it - and continues watching - this time, with her Bastard of a brother. Who is now sitting on the couch, and not on her poor ottoman. Fate waves a hand and the ottoman is fixed, and then settles in to Observe. 

"Don't meddle." Fate demands. "You tend to mess things up even more than Chaos does -  _Do. Not. Meddle."_

"But these are my favourite pawns!" Destiny exclaims. "Look! It's ickle Potter, I remember him!" 

"Yes," Fate starts, "You said he'd have to kill the man that killed his parents. Do you have any idea of the difficulties I had in making that work out? The poor kid ends up traumatised in most, dead in others, fucking  _on the bastard's side,_ et cetera, et cetera. I only _just_ managed a handful of 'verses in which he actually succeeds, you asshole." 

Destiny frowns - minuscule, but there. Maybe there's hope for him yet, Fate thinks. As a power, she can't  _make_ there be hope for him yet, but maybe her older brother - the actual Hope - will come home from one of the many Earth's soon and fix the mess he left behind. 

Goddamn Zeus, trapping her Bro in a box and giving it to a mortal. And fuck Pandora for not releasing him so he can govern everything like he's supposed to, rather than just the many Earths. Damn her. 

Fate had  _liked_ Hope, he was a good brother. That's rare, these days, now he's gone. He'd held them all together, back then, and Fate rather misses that. She doesn't really miss Pestilence though. Or War. But Hope... she'd be fine with the others coming back if he did too. 

However, this is besides the point. So what if Destiny frowned, that doesn't mean he's a good person. Maybe he just regrets messing further with the Mortals' life. Like Fate, Destiny prefers to be hands on when he can - but he hadn't been able to then, so she'd taken over the control of that boy's life, and he's no longer under Destiny's influence - but Fate is, in that she has to honour her superior's wishes in what the boy  _must_ do in life. It sucks, but she has a plan, this time. 

Fate just hopes it'll all work out, in the end.  

... Wow, that got  _way_ off topic. Getting back on track, as she'd said before - the video feed was on the characters from the True_Alpha 'verse (300-True_Alpha), but it wasn't nighttime any longer. The time appeared to be around midday - Fate sighed in relief. Sometimes, Time gets bored with the multiverse and fast forwards it, so that if Fate pauses the video feed and then plays it, she can end up loosing centuries and has to catch up on  _paperwork._ Ugh. So yes, Fate is rather relieved. Anyway, the time is around Midday, and the pre-teens are all in the lunch hall. She hopes it's the next day, and the conversation seems familiar, so she reckons it is, and nods. Fate grabs her notepad, and begins writing - after checking what they all got up to in her absence. 

Taking a breath, Fate puts pen to paper, and watches the show. 

* * *

Previously, in Verse 3-1-45, subset of ‘verses 300-True_Alpha and 100-Chosen_One...

* * *

 

“There he is, look!" "Where?"  
  
"Next to the tall kid with the red hair."  
  
"Wearing the glasses?" “Of course he’s wearing glasses; He’s _Harry Potter,_ you dolt.”  
  
"Did you see his face?" "Some of those books got it  _way_ wrong. The kid's  _scrawny!"_  
  
"Did you see his scar?" "Looks fresh, dunnit? What's up with that, you think? How'd your dad say curse scars work, again?-"  
  
Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory the next day. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Harry wished they wouldn't, because he was trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes.

Harry wasn't the only one in the spotlight, however. Hogwarts, as far as the students knew, hadn't had transfer students in  _ages_ \- if they'd ever had any at all. This meant that Scott, Malia, and Stiles, also were followed by whispers and intrigue. Though the three got less of a hit than Harry, it was enough at times to deter the masses from the Boy-Who-Lived, and for that he was grateful. 

Of course, the three had no idea on how to handle this sudden notoriety, having been rather unknown back in Beacon Hills. Scott handled it with grace, of course - smiling and answering when and where he could. Malia gave strained grimace-smiles and short answers, and therefore got less attention than the others, which is what she'd wanted anyway, so that was fine. 

Stiles seemed more anxious than he usually did - but that was part and parcel of what they'd discussed the night previous, so if he wasn't as talkative as usual, it was understandable to the other two, if not to the students at large. When Stiles did respond, however, he found it much easier than Scott had to come up with careful lies and misdirections on the spot for their backstory, so to speak, and many seemed to be torn between finding him funny or being annoyed, which he was rather used to, all in all.

In the end, Harry still got the brunt of attention, but it was dulled in comparison to what he would have gotten in the original 'verse's canon, so Scott feels glad that they could ease at least one of his many troubles.   
  
Stiles had found that there were indeed a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: just as in the books, there were wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Unlike the movies, Scott had found that there were doors which wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. Which was rather annoying, in all honesty - Malia thought it made literally no sense for a school to have that sort of thing. And as particularly sour icing on this mess of a cake, they all found out that it was also very hard to remember where anything was, because everything seemed to move around a lot, which was just plain aggravating. The people in the portraits kept going to visit each other, and Harry was sure the coats of armour could walk. Malia confirmed this for him when she bumped into one as it rounded a corner - later, she confessed that there had been no heartbeat and it had made no noise... in all, it had rather disturbed her, since the powers she has as a werecoyote had been utterly useless in that situation, and there is nothing that they can do about that.   
  
The ghosts didn't help, either. It was always a nasty shock when one of them glided suddenly through a door you were trying to open. Nearly Headless Nick was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him when you were late for class. He would drop wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!" He'd tried this with the American's a few times, as a sort of challenge to himself, perhaps - the first time Peeves tried to catch Scott off guard, he'd dodged with surprising speed. When he'd gone for Malia, she'd growled and swiped at him, then spent a few minutes glaring at anyone who looked oddly at her - and finally, perhaps most oddly, he always seemed to miss when he tried to hit Stiles with pretty much anything. 

All in all, Harry thought this rather odd - Ron had shrugged and guessed that Stiles' magic might be acting out, but the others he'd had no clue as to how they did what they did. Hermione had frowned at Malia, then got a thoughtful look on her face, and Harry had the distinct feeling that whatever Hermione was theorising, any confrontation would likely end in her own tears. 

Besides all this, there was something even worse than Peeves, if that was possible; the caretaker, Argus Filch. Harry, Ron, and the three Americans whom had tagged along behind the two boys had managed to get on the wrong side of him on their very first morning. Filch found them trying to force their way through a door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. Stiles was just about to try his hand at it when the caretaker appeared. He wouldn't believe they were lost, was sure they were trying to break into it on purpose, and was threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing.

"I forgot about that," Stiles muttered to Scott and Malia. "I thought something happened about now, but I couldn't remember what. Suppose it was this, yeah?"

The other two nodded.   
  
Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging, lamp like eyes just like Filch's. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she'd whisk off for Filch, who'd appear, wheezing, two seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of the school better than anyone (except perhaps the Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good kick.  
  
And then, once you had managed to find them, there were the classes themselves. There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly found out, than waving your wand and saying a few funny words.  
  
They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout, where they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi, and found out what they were used for. Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. 

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class he took the roll call, and when he reached Harry's name he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight. When he got to Stiles' name on the roll, he paused for about a minute before looking up. The boy in question sighed, told the Professor to use Stiles instead of whatever was written down, and the roll call moved on. Malia again requested the teacher ignore the 'Hale' part of her last name, and with a surprisingly understanding look, he crossed out the double barrel, and re-called out "Malia Tate."  
  
Finally, at least for their first and second year teachers, Professor McGonagall was again quite different. Harry had been quite right to think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class. Though a little physically younger than the actress in the movies - as all adult wizards seemed to be, Scott noted - she sounded and looked like a younger version of the actress that had played her part. All in all, Scott thinks they pretty much nailed this one.  
  
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."  
  
Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but some soon realized they weren't going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. Those that hadn't had already known or guessed that the things they would be doing would likely be rather simplistic - as they _are_ only eleven. After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match and had to start trying to turn it into a needle. Unfortunately, Scott, Malia, and Stiles all ran into the same problem.

"uh, Professor?" Malia raised a hand, frowning.

"Yes Miss Tate? What is it?" The teacher requested, moving over to her desk from where she'd been at the front.

"I don't have a wand." She told the woman, blunt as always. The Professor actually seemed surprised, for a moment - lips thinning further as she blinked and paused. "I see." She said, brows furrowing. "... Does this apply to all three of you?" McGonagall asked of the Americans. Scott mutely nodded, as Stiles frowned, checked his pockets. He blinked rapidly in surprise when he found a wand - strange in style; unlike Harry's wand, which was plain wood, Stiles', though mostly wooden, had a handle made of some type of metal. The other two transfer students looked just as surprised at the existence of Stiles' wand, which was rather peculiar. Wouldn't the three have gone to buy their own wands? But it was evident they had not - and the three's appearance on the train was becoming more and more suspicious to Harry by the day. Granted, it was only their second day here, counting last night, but still.

"I have one." Stiles said. "I guess."

He placed the wand on the table as if it was some dangerous object... well, the boy did seem rather paranoid to Harry, so maybe Stiles thought it was. The sudden appearance of the tool wouldn't help matters either, he thinks.

"Then start the exercise." the Professor told him, and the boy reluctantly complied, gingerly picking up his wand and following the motions to do the spell.

"You two," Professor McGonagall addressed Scott and Malia. "Study the notes and help Mr. Stilinski with his techniques. At the end of the lesson, stay behind, and I will take you to the Headmasters office so a trip to Ollivander's can be arranged."

The two pre-teens nodded in acceptance of her orders, and, satisfied, the teacher moved on to one of the other students who had their hand raised.

Harry looked to Ron, who seemed just as confused at the three American's lack of wands as many of the others seemed to be.

"Why didn't you say anything in an earlier class?" Hermione hissed to the three - her curiosity outweighing her wish to stay respectfully silent in class. "We were doing theory." Stiles muttered to her - his wand again on his desk as he poked at it, perhaps expecting it to jump up and attack him at any moment. "Didn't need to use them then, did we?" The girl pursed her lips, but nodded all the same.

"You should really stop that," she scolded Stiles. "the work is important, you need to stop messing around." Having said her piece, Hermione turned back to her work. Harry saw Stiles' mouth twist, eyes darken, but the boy shrugged it off and picked up the wand regardless of whatever emotion he'd been feeling.

Harry turned his eyes back to his work before he was caught spying. Ron passed him a note under the desk.

 _'What's up with him, you think?"_ It asked, and Harry turned his head slightly towards the redhead, and shrugged. The other boy nodded, frowning, and jabbed his wand at the matchstick in front of him. Nothing happened. He sighed, glanced at the notes sitting between them and scowled, ears reddening. Harry glanced at them, and wined at his handwriting. He wasn't exactly used to quills, so it was practically unreadable.

"Sorry." Harry muttered. "Turn your wand like this..." And he demonstrated the motions. Ron flashed a grimace in thanks, before trying again.

All in all, by the end of the lesson, only Hermione Granger had made any difference to her match; Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had gone all silver and pointy and gave Hermione a rare smile.

Harry had seen Stiles slip something silver into his pocket before the end of the lesson - a chance glance around the room after having pretty much given up on his match allowing him to do this - and Harry's eyes narrowed, suspicion growing. 

 _Hogwarts hasn't had transfer students in Merlin knows how long - if it's ever had any in the first place,_ He remembers overhearing. 

Them not having wands, or any robes, and appearing on the train without any personal effects... 

It  _was_ suspicious. Harry didn't want to think bad of them, the three seemed like nice people, but given the circumstances, he couldn't exactly help it. 

The three boys; Harry, Ron, and Stiles - said their 'see you's to Scott and Malia, who went off with Professor McGonagall in the direction of the Headmaster's office. 

"Did you even go to Diagon?" Ron asked Stiles. Stiles shook his head, and, frowning, Ron went quiet.   
  
The three rounded the corner, to the class everyone had really been looking forwards to; Defense Against the Dark Arts. Unfortunately, Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke.

"Could'a told you that," He just about heard Stiles mutter under his breath. "He stutters like someone with a fake stutter and he's scared of his own shadow, I mean, _really."_ Harry couldn't help but concede his point, even if Stiles hadn't meant to be heard.

Quirrell's classroom smelled strongly of garlic, truthfully not that bad a smell, which everyone said was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania and was afraid would be coming back to get him one of these days.

"Isn't he supposed to be able to deal with that sort of thing?" Lavender murmured. "I suppose this is his way of doing so," Hermione replied, and the brunette sat back, considering this.

When Dean Thomas asked, Quirrell told them his turban had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but they weren't sure they believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went. Finally, it was Patil wondering _'why on earth an African wizarding prince would give him a turban, of all things, as a reward for getting rid of a creature that surely had been terrorising the place he governed - wouldn't it be something of much greater value?'_ That confirmed their disbelief into something solid - and in some, namely Harry and as a consequence Ron (as Harry told him his suspicions), into proper suspicion as to why he had the turban, because keeping garlic in the turban wouldn't exactly be that useful, especially if it was knocked off his bald head.   
  
In addition to all this, Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn't miles behind everyone else. Lots of people had come from Muggle families and, like him, hadn't had any idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so much to learn that even people like Ron didn't have much of a head start.

(Though Ron had laughed oddly when Harry had confessed his belief that people like him had a head start on this sort of thing. Harry wasn't exactly sure why.)  
  
Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They finally managed to find their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost once. The three American's were already there - somehow, aside from that time when they all got on Filch's bad side, these three had never once been late, not once gotten lost.   
  
"What have we got today?" Harry asked Ron as he poured sugar on his porridge. Stiles glanced up, and nudged Malia, who turned from listening into Scott's conversation with Neville (Something about the medicinal uses of magical plants, and Scott's vague knowledge of some muggle plant-based remedies) to pay attention to the redhead.   
  
"Double Potions with the Slytherins," said Ron. "Snape's Head of Slytherin House. They say he always favours them - we'll be able to see if it's true."  
  
"Wish McGonagall favoured us," said Harry. Professor McGonagall was head of Gryffindor House, but it hadn't stopped her from giving them a huge pile of homework the day before. Stiles snorted. "Yeah, but then the other houses'd hate her just as much as they all hate Snape, wouldn't they? And favouring people doesn't really seem much like a Gryffindoor quality, truthfully."  
  
Just then, before anyone could respond, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to this by now, but it had given him a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.  
  
Hedwig hadn't brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the other school owls. This morning, however, she fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto Harry's plate. Harry tore it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:  
  
_Dear Harry,_  
  
I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three?  
  
I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig.  
  
Hagrid  
  
Harry borrowed Ron's quill, scribbled _Yes, please, see you later_ on the back of the note, and sent Hedwig off again.

"What was that all about?" Malia asked. "Hagrid asked if I'd like to go have a chat. You can all come, if you'd like."

Ron agreed readily, grabbing some more bacon from the platter. Stiles nodded, Scott said "Yeah, sounds good," And Malia shrugged.

"Why not?" She responded, "Count me in."  
  
It was lucky that they all had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because the Potions lesson turned out to be the worst thing that had happened to all of them so far.  
  
At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that Professor Snape disliked him. By the end of the first Potions lesson, he knew he'd been wrong. Snape didn't dislike Harry - he _hated_ him.  
  
Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.  
  
Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name.  
  
"Ah, Yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new -- celebrity."  
  
Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their hands. Snape looked up at the class, straight to Harry. His eyes were black like Hagrid's, but they had none of Hagrid's warmth. They were cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels. The roll call carried on, and his lips twitched when he got to Stiles' name. Unlike the other teachers, Snape attempted to pronounce it. 

Harry wasn't sure what he'd said, but it certainly didn't sound like a name.

"Yeah, no." Stiles said, couldn't help himself. The Slytherins had sniggered at Stiles' name as well - or, rather, Harry corrected himself -they had sniggered at Stiles' name this time, rather than how Snape had called him out. The room went quiet after that. 

"No?" Snape asked. "Would you like to  _correct_ me, on my pronunciation?" Stiles' lips thinned - unlike McGonagall, it was more in anger than in anything else; Harry could see the boy's eyes darken, again. "No." He responded. "I can't pronounce it, which is why I'm asking if you could please simply avoid using the name, since you can't say it properly either?"

The room stayed silent. A few of the more easily scared students looked a little pale, and Hermione's eyes were frantically travelling between the teacher and student. Snape stared - likely a tactic he used to scare people into doing what he wanted, Harry thought - but Stiles didn't waver, which was a little impressive, given that some of the other students were fidgeting and poor Neville was as white as a ghost despite the fact that Snape's gaze was not directly on any of them. "Certainly," Snape drew out, "Mr. Stilinski. Two points from Gryffindoor for your cheek."

The class let out a collective, silent breath - aside from the Slytherins, who from what Harry could see were all quietly enjoying the spectacle.

Snape looked over the class.  
  
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word -- like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. Unlike Professor McGonagall, this wasn't through respect - Malia would wager it was more through sheer fear. She already despised this man. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death -- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Many hands clenched, and brows furrowed, breaths hitched. Some were people who wanted the former, the second, or the third thing he could teach - others wanted to prove the weren't stupid. 

Stiles had to give that this tactic was clever. Weed out people who might be dangerous, and those that might be reckless. It was still a dick move to call a bunch of kids idiots though, for a teacher.  
  
More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows. Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat and looked desperate to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead.  
  
"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"  
  
Powdered root of what to an infusion of what ? Harry glanced at Ron, who looked as stumped as he was; Hermione's hand had shot into the air.  
  
"I don't know, sir," said Harry.  
  
Snape's lips curled into a sneer.  
  
"Tut, tut -- fame clearly isn't everything."  
  
He ignored Hermione's hand.  
  
"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"  
  
Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat, but Harry didn't have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.  
  
"I don't know, sir."  
  
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?" Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes. He had looked through his books at the Dursleys', but did Snape expect him to remember everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi ?  
  
Snape was still ignoring Hermione's quivering hand.

Malia winced, but, at Stiles prompting, didn't move to pull Hermione's arm down as she'd wanted to. Obviously, this needed to happen, for some reason.  
  
"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"Aconite," Stiles murmured, low as possible. "Scott, you'll need to stay as far away from his ingredients cupboard as possible, okay?" 

Scott nodded minutely. Snape was still too focused on Harry to notice their little conversation.  
  
At this question, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling.  
  
"I don't know," said Harry quietly. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"  
  
A few people laughed, including Stiles - his was sharper, though, more mocking Snape than finding Harry's sentence amusing. Harry caught Seamus's eye, and Seamus winked. Malia grinned at him, and Dean Thomas discretely offered a thumbs up in his direction. Snape, however, was not pleased.  
  
"Sit down," he snapped at Hermione. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Snape said, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter."

Harry scowled at his bag as he reached down for some parchment - but, truthfully, he should have known better. Adults were like that, after all - if they felt you were being rude. Harry still didn't get why Snape had ignored Hermione and zeroed in on him - even in the wizarding world, teachers payed attention to those that raised their hands. What was Snape's reasoning?

Scott raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. His notebook was already open on the table, a few words written down. Some others were the same - frantically scribbling down what they could remember of Snape's quick-fire explanations. 

Hermione pursed her lips, slightly. In her experience, teachers usually didn't expect most children to be able to remember all of what he'd just spouted and write it down, nor did they expect children to automatically know when they're supposed to be taking notes - even in the wizarding world, this had remained true. 

But perhaps he just wasn't the best at teaching theory, Hermione thought. Professor Snape  _must_ be good at teaching the practical side of things, otherwise what's the point of having him as a teacher?

That must be it, she thought, satisfied, and slapped Seamus' hand away as he tried to pull her notes over so he could copy. 

"Write your own," She hissed, and he frowned at her, rolled his eyes, and turned to Dean. 

 _"Psst."_ The polish-american boy hissed to her desk partners. " _Here."_ He tossed them some balled up parchment, which Hermione assumed to be notes. She frowned -  _you should always take your own notes!-_ but decided that if they wanted to get detentions, that was very well their own choice and she wouldn't be dragged into this mess. Hermione turned towards her own notes and the front, and hastily finished scribbling down what Snape had said before it slipped her mind.  

* * *

Things didn't improve for the Gryffindors as the Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticising almost everyone except Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow managed to melt Patil's cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes. Within seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.  
  
"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one wave of his wand. Scott had to grab Stiles before he said anything in anger - although Scott's own disbelief at how a teacher could be like this to an obviously insecure student made this a tenuous grasp. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?" Snape snapped.   
  
Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose. Dean was looking at Snape in disbelief - probably wondering why the teacher wasn't prioritising the child's well being over anything else, as many others were - Malia could scent even some Slytherins were a bit confused.   
  
"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Lavender, who had been checking Parvati over for any boils. Then he rounded on Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.  
  
"You -- Potter -- why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."  
  
This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Ron kicked him behind their cauldron.   
  
"Don't push it," he muttered, "I've heard Snape can turn very nasty." 

Unfortunately, nobody had thought to hold back Malia. 

"Seriously?" She demanded. "Harry was concentrating on not blowing up his own cauldron, since none of us actually know how to prevent any of what could happen, or know what would happen if we did the wrong thing, or hell, we haven't even been taught how to stop them-" she jerked her head in the direction of the Slytherins -" From throwing junk into our cauldrons." Malia pointed to the isle separating the Gryffindors and Slytherins, and sure enough there were potion ingredients scattered, the pop-able ones having splat on the floor in ways that showed which direction they'd come from. 

"I mean, you can't blame Harry for Neville's mistake, just as you can't blame him for blowing up the cauldron if he didn't mean to.  _Accidents happen,_ Professor. As a teacher, you should know that."

The room suddenly felt cold, to Harry - Snape's tunnel eyes focusing on the American girl. When her eyes met Snape's, something very odd happened - Harry only saw it because of the angle he was at, and he isn't truly sure he saw what he thinks he saw regardless, because he's certain eyes don't do what hers did. 

In that Malia's eyes flashed a bright blue, for a moment. Another odd happening was Snape's reaction - his already sallow skin paled slightly, and his head shook minutely, an automatic action. 

"Detention." Snape's quiet voice rang out loud, in the silent room. "With Filch, you shall be cleaning the Trophy Room." 

His eyes were colder than before, Harry thought, if that were possible. "And Ten points from Gryffindor. This is for talking back to a teacher, and accusing fellow students of sabotage without any evidence."

Malia's eyes almost seemed to say  _'Well that's bullshit,'_ but she kept quiet, Stiles was glad. He didn't want to have to get himself in detention so she would have some company, for multiple ones. 

The room was silent as Snape returned to the front. "Well?" He demanded, silkily. "Know now not to make mistakes in your potions. We wouldn't want worse results than Longbottoms potion gave. Miss Patil, work with Miss Granger."

And the lesson continued on in gloomy silence - everyone in Gryffindor's mood severely lessened. 

* * *

 As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry's mind was racing and his spirits were low. He'd lost two points for Gryffindor in his very first week -- why did Snape hate him so much?  
  
"Cheer up," said Ron, "Snape's always taking points off Fred and George." 

"Remember, you weren't the only one who got in trouble today." Stiles told him, and Harry winced - because that was true, and somehow he'd forgotten that. 

Malia shrugged. "I don't really care about the points," She said, blase, "I care that a teacher doesn't care about his student's health, and, you know, them not dying or getting into horrific accidents."

Stiles' eyes lit up. Harry got the distinct idea that something bad was probably going to happen to someone due to whatever the pre-teen was planning. "Stiles," Scott sighed. "Ah-" Stiles pointed at him, reprimanding. "You found pranking Finnstock funny, don't back out on me now." Scott looked to the heavens but nodded all the same, and Stiles grinned - eyes mischievous, countenance pleased. "Atta boy, Scotty." He threw an arm around his friend's shoulders - Both Scott and Malia's shoulders, and stood between them. "You guys go onto Hagrid's after lessons, say 'hi' for us." Stiles said. "We've got some fun to plan." 

Malia looked intrigued. Stiles dragged the two other Americans off towards the stairs. Harry glanced at Ron, who shrugged at him in response - just as clueless about it all. 

* * *

 

When Harry and Ron got into the dorms after tea, they saw that Scott and Stiles were already there.

So was Malia.

"Oi." Ron said, frowning. "What's a girl doing in here?"

Malia shrugged at him. "I know right, its weird." She replied, drily. "I can get up the stairs into this place, but you guys can't get into the girls dorms."

"That's weirdly sexist." Dean mused from his bed, reading some magazine or another with shiny sports headlines on the cover, a picture of one Footballer plastered underneath. 

Seamus and Neville were nowhere to be seen. Apparently, the former was at a gobstones match in one of the abandoned classrooms - and don't ask how he found out about the betting ring, Dean has no clue, so Harry refrained from doing that. 

None of them knew where Neville was. Shrugging, they figured he was still in the hospital wing due to the boils - which was a little worrying, but there was nothing they could do, so they all put it to the back of their minds.

"So what do you have planned?" Ron asked the three sitting around or on Stiles' bed.

"Nothing so far." Stiles sighed. "I guess only really knowing muggle pranks doesn't really help, since magical ones would be more spectacular."

Ron frowned. "Have you asked my brothers?"

"Yeah." Malia piped up. "They did give some good advice, and a couple books -" She pointed at the pile on the bed -"But we can't figure out which would be best."

"I mean, dying his hair bright colours sounds fun, but we'd need to order some muggle dye as he'd have ways around magical dye, I'd guess." Stiles said. "The twins volunteered to magic anything so that he can't glamour it away, but they won't help beyond that." 

Ron nodded, frowning. Harry hesitated, but spoke up. 

"What about plants?" He offered. Stiles frowned at him. "Natural dyes," Harry extrapolated at their looks. "Muggles used to do that all the time, before they could synthesise them, and they still do, I think." 

"Some plants do stain," Stiles mused. "Yeah, that might work." 

"Good one." Dean nodded. "Can't wait to see the look on Snape's face. You guys better do this well." 

Stiles looked affronted. "Trust me." He said. "I know what I'm doing."

"Pull tricks often then?" Dean grinned - for some reason, Scott grimaced, a little. 

"Suppose you could say that, yeah." Stiles nodded. Dean hummed, then went back to his magazine. 

The three on the bed returned to their books and quiet conversing. Harry and Ron shared a glance, before sighing and grabbing their bags. 

"Going down?" Dean asked. "Homework," Ron said, moodily. Dean winced, started to stand. "Yeah, I should probably get on mine. Share notes? I didn't get anything down in Potions... forgot all what he'd said." Dean grimaced, and Harry nodded. "Sure."

The three boys went down, and left the others in the dorm. 

* * *

 

"So," Stiles said. "Aside from this brilliant cover actually sounding like something we should do, let's talk about what HP's been up to lately."

Malia put down her book, and Scott nodded, leaning back against the side of the bed to look up at them.

"Harry went down to Hagrid's, and since we weren't there I'm guessing it went as it should have, so he's found out about the stone and the break in, which means he's just as up to speed as he was canonically." Stiles says. "So far, this all seems very book-canon, though Neville and Hagrid and arguably McGonagall all look almost or exactly like their movie counterparts, so maybe some bigger things or later things will be more movie-accurate, who knows, but for now let's say it's all book canon, and if something very much movie-based happens, deal with it then, yeah?"

The others nodded. It didn't seem like a bad idea; at least, it wouldn't over complicate things for them, and that's good.

"So, Scotty. How do you think we should play this, as in, should we interfere or...?" Stiles asked, and Scott frowned. "Us being here changes things even if we don't try to." Scott says. "And we've already meddled, so I'd say we should just go on doing what feels right. If we change enough we won't even have to worry about what happens in the book... maybe that would be for the best?"

"Because all these kids have horrible lives?" Stiles guesses, drily. "You're probably right." He agreed. "Okay, so just go along as if we're supposed to be part of all this." 

They nodded, and the agreement was made. 

"Finally," Stiles took out his wand, placed it on the bed. 

"What the fuck is this shit?" He demanded flatly, frowning at the stick.

"It's like when your baseball bat showed up for no reason." Scott commented. Stiles nodded, and Malia looked at the wand, considering. "Maybe it  _is_ the baseball bat," she offered, and the two boys blinked - because they hadn't thought of that, but it makes a lot of sense. 

Stiles picked up the wand, frowned at it - then held it by the wooden end. He yelped and Malia moved backwards as the wand changed shape to that of a baseball bat, and they all frowned at it. 

"Why." Stiles stared at it. "Just - why." 

No-one had any answers for him. Stiles sighed, and leaned the bat against his bedside cabinet. 

"We'll mess with that later." He sighed. "When are you two going to Diagon Alley?"

Scott perked up, and Malia said "This weekend, Sunday morning. Give us an afternoon to practice with them."

Stiles nodded. "Alright. Think either of you can get a hold of some muggle flowers when you're out?" 

Scott nodded. "Yeah, we're going without escort - we can sneak out of the leaky cauldron and grab some off the hedges or something." 

"There's a park nearby, I'm pretty sure." Malia said, "From what I could gather of the map they gave us of muggle London, anyway."

Stiles raised an eyebrow at her. She grimaced. "We're being dropped off at the Ministry and have to make our way to Diagon - it's how they used to do it before when students could stay here all year if they were orphans. I guess since we sort-of are, they're treating us like it."

Stiles nodded, quiet. Scott hadn't dealt with the fact that he'd never see his mom again (and it's not like he much cares if he never sees his dad) but he's sure Stiles has been thinking non-stop about the fact that he's lost his dad. Permanently, this time, with no nemeton for them to sacrifice themselves to in order to find their parents. 

_(I can't lose both of my parents alright? Not **both** of them.)_

Stiles breathed - in, out. Forceful. 

Scott was worried, since in the wizarding world, they don't exactly have Adderall or Xanax or any of that, and Stiles - he kind of really needs to take his prescribed medication. 

Strained, Stiles smiles and gets up, grabs his bag. "Well," He begins,"Either way - we still need to do the homework."

He shoulders the bag and gestures for the two to follow, as he exits the room. 

Sharing a glance, Scott and Malia do just that. 

Because he _is_  right. They do need to do the homework. 

* * *

 


	4. Flying Lesson.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few changes, here and there, can create more problems than they solve. 
> 
> At least Malfoy gets a strict talking to, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! Here's the next chapter. Bigger changes than there have been thus far in this one - hang tight; it's gonna be a bumpy ride (from here on out)!

* * *

Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he hated more than Dudley, but that was before he met Draco Malfoy.

Still, first-year Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn't have to put up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn't until they spotted a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor common room that made them all groan. Flying lessons would be starting on Thursday -- and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together.

"Typical," said Harry darkly. "Just what I always wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy." He had been looking forward to learning to fly more than anything else.

"You don't know that you'll make a fool of yourself," said Ron reasonably. "Anyway, I know Malfoy's always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet that's all talk." Malfoy certainly did talk about flying a lot. “Trust me,” One of the Americans said “You’ll do fine.” After turning his head, Harry saw it to be Stiles. Harry didn’t know why the other boy seemed so amused, but that didn’t really matter much, because Harry still felt horrible.

Regardless, the three Americans were down from the dorms now, so the five of them went to breakfast. Once there, Harry saw that A barn owl had brought Neville a small package. “Who’s it from?” Malia asked, and Neville replied, “Gran,” Grinning down at the box. He opened it excitedly, then showed them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke. “That’s a Remembrall, right?” "Yes,” Neville nodded. “Gran knows I forget things -- this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red -- oh..." His face fell, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, "You've forgotten something..." “They don’t seem that useful,” Scott frowned. “It doesn’t even clue you in on what you’ve forgotten.” Neville was about to respond when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched the Remembrall out of his hand. Harry and Ron, jumped to their feet, as Malia and the other Americans protested. “Hey,” Malia said. “Give that back.” Privately, Harry was half-hoping for a reason to fight Malfoy (he assumed the same of Ron), but Professor McGonagall - who could spot trouble quicker than any teacher in the school - was there in a flash. "What's going on?" "Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor." Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall back on the table. "Just looking," he said, and he sloped away with Crabbe and Goyle behind him.

“What an-” And then, Stiles said something about Malfoy that had Hermione reprimanding him, loudly. This didn’t stop many of the others agreeing, however, and so she scowled into her porridge.

At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, the Americans and the other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson.

It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

The Slytherins – annoyingly, at least to Harry - were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground.

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived a few moments later. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked.

"Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up." Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles. Similarly, Scott’s broom had scratches in the handle and a few of the twigs had snapped off. He wondered why the brooms hadn’t been replaced when they were such an obvious safety hazard… Stiles said that the author was probably making a point about wizards not really caring all that much about that sort of thing. Or something; Stiles had never claimed to care much about literary analysis. In all fairness, that was more Scott’s thing; he just hadn’t read the books to do so.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!"'

"UP!” Everyone shouted.

Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Hermione's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground. As for the three Americans and Ron – Ron’s broom had slowly risen up into his waiting hand, Stiles’ had shot up, fallen, and then went more calmly to him – Scott’s had rolled over before acquiescing, stuttering in its movements slightly, and Malia’s had inched warily away from her after she’d growled at it. After growling “ _Up_.” at it once more, the broom flung itself into her waiting hand as if – scared of the consequences if it didn’t. Or something.

Harry… didn’t understand Malia very well. This was just another strange thing about the three, and Harry was getting… a little more than suspicious about the group.

Well – after that, Madam Hooch showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips.

Harry and Ron – and, to an extent, the Americans and a few other people - were delighted when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it wrong for years. Malfoy sneered at her retreating back, yet he still adjusted his grip.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three -- two --" But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips. "Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle -- twelve feet -- twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground. Malia made a noise of worry and Scott simply, after looking at Madam Hooch as if to say ‘why aren’t you doing anything?” got on his broom and launched himself after Neville.  

“Come back down,” Hooch demanded, and Stiles was glaring at her now, along with quite a few others. “Do something!” Patil cried out, staring across at the instructor.

From what Harry could see, Scott was trying to coax Neville out of panic mode. Stiles was worrying at the nails on his left hand and Malia was staring, transfixed, at the two in the sky.

For his part, Harry couldn’t look away. Neville’s broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest. “Neville,” Scott said; loud enough for them to hear. “Neville _don’t look down,”_ He commanded, and Neville – appeared to look at him. Scott wasn’t audible, any longer – at least to Harry.

 _“He’s telling Neville to hold the broom properly,”_ Malia was muttering to Stiles, who was listening with rapt attention. How she could hear, Harry didn’t know... and apparently, Ron didn’t know either; he shared a bewildered glance with Harry.

Hooch was staring up, her face as white as Neville’s. “Merlin,” She muttered. “Child – broom, now,” She looked over to a Slytherin, who wordlessly handed over their broom, which Hooch mounted before flying off, up into the sky after Neville. _“She’s telling Scott to go land,”_ Malia said. _“He’s refusing.”_

 _“Of course he is.”_ Stiles sighed. “Scott, come on!” He called out – didn’t shout, which Harry would have thought necessary. Still, Scott glanced down, then after a moment flew down, landed next to Stiles. From what they could see, Hooch got Neville with some levitation spell or some sort – Hermione muttered something along the lines of – _“mobilicorpus, of course!”_ – and the instructor moved him carefully onto the back of her broom, before flying them down slowly as Neville hung on, eyes squeezed shut. “Calming draught,” She muttered to herself. “No use getting you on another broom without one.” She clambered off the broom and then Neville did the same, shaking slightly. “Come on, dear." Neville, his face tear-streaked, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter. "Did you see his face, the great lump?" The other Slytherins joined in. "Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil. "Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

“Oh for the love of,” Malia muttered, cut herself off. “Have something to say?” Malfoy sneered.

“Yes,” She snapped. Harry could have sworn that her eyes did the same thing they’d done in potions, but that couldn’t be right. Maybe. Could it?

“He could have died, you know,” She said. “The broom could have flown up and up and up and he could have fallen off and _died.”_

“And the world might be better for it,” Parkinson sneered.

“Oh –” And here, Stiles said something else that had Hermione sucking in a startled breath and from the other students, a few shocked faces.

Malfoy was now glaring at Stiles. Sneering, he said –“ Do you really think I care what a mudblood thinks of me?”

There was actual silence, for a moment. Ron’s face grew redder with anger, and a couple of the other Gryffindors’ expressions had the same emotion behind them.

“Malfoy!” A Slytherin snapped. “Was this _really_ the time?” She said. “What with so many witnesses,” The girl added, hissing it at a lower but still audible volume.

Malfoy sneered at her, sneered at all of them except for a few of the other Slytherins.

Stiles shrugged. _Shrugged_. Probably the only person who knew what it meant that didn’t seem to care.  “That wasn’t very smart of you,” He said, dryly.

Malfoy pinked, slightly, but his sneer intensified. Nobody could say anything further, as someone – a teacher, by the looks of it – was approaching the field.

“Professor McGonagall?” Hermione asked, tentative. “Yes, Miss Granger?” The woman requested, and Malfoy looked a little worried.

“What’s a mudblood?” She asked, innocently unaware. Harry was much the same, of course – so the Professor’s response was just as confusing as the rest of the responses had been. “I could tell it was really rude, of course –“ Hermione added, disparagingly, but before she could continue or the Professor could say any more, Ron spoke up, “Rude?” He asked, “ _Rude?_ It means ‘dirty blood’; a really foul name for someone who’s got non-magic parents.”

Hermione blinked at him. “So – it’s… racist?” She asked, faintly. “I –” Hermione paused. “I didn’t expect to get that… here.” Hermione had a Jewish mother and a dark-skinned father; Harry knew how some people thought of that – his Uncle included – and he knew it was _awful,_ what they thought. Much the same as Hermione – he hadn’t expected a world of magic to have much the same issues as one without.

“And we don’t tolerate it, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said, narrowing her eyes at those that weren’t muggleborns themselves. “Who said it?”

“Malfoy said it to –” Hermione hesitated. “Stiles,” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Me, he said it to me.” Stiles didn’t seem too affected, but McGonagall rounded on Malfoy in a way that made him pale drastically all the same. “You,” She snapped. “Mr. Malfoy. Come with me. _Now.”_

Malfoy walked over, and the Professor narrowed her eyes at him. He winced and walked faster – the two disappeared up the hill and into the castle.

A few minutes of silence later, Hooch had returned sans Neville. “Let us continue the lesson,” She said frostily. Harry had the feeling she’d bumped into McGonagall on the way back. “If any of you so much as say the first syllable of that word, you _will_ be talking with the Headmaster, understood?”

There were many nods around the students, and a few verbal agreements.

“Good. Now – mount your brooms…” She instructed, and they complied.

* * *

 

Come lunch, after the double that was flying, someone rather unwelcome turned up at the Gryffindor table: Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

"What do you want?" said Harry coolly. "We don’t want you here," said Malia, glaring at them both. Harry knew she was close to Stiles – knew that both the other Americans were – so perhaps she was semi-growling because of that. "Tonight. Wizard's duel. Wands only -- no contact.” Stiles frowned at him, as Scott looked momentarily confused. “What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?" “You’d be wrong,” Stiles said. “But I’m not an idiot. You wouldn’t show.” Malfoy glared at him. “I would,” he snapped. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room; that's always unlocked." “No.” Stiles said. “You haven’t exactly proven yourself to be… trustworthy,” He semi-sneered, and Malfoy scowled. “Lunch time.” He said. “Tomorrow. Behind the greenhouses.” After that, Malfoy walked off. Stiles sighed. “Well, that’s a huge-“ again, Hermione protested – “up.” “I’ll be your second?” Ron offered. “Not like I’m gonna die,” Stiles said dryly. “But thanks. Sure.”

To be honest, it wasn't what you'd call the perfect end to the day, Harry thought, as he lay awake much later listening to Dean and Seamus falling asleep (Neville wasn't back from the hospital wing). Ron had spent all evening giving Stiles advice such as "If he tries to curse you, you'd better dodge it, because I can't remember how to block them." Stiles had snorted and handed him a spell book from his bag. “Protego,” He said. “But I don’t know when we’re supposed to learn it.”

From the way he said it, Harry thought that might’ve been a lie. But he couldn’t be certain. Still, Ron had actually accepted the book… Harry figured his dislike of Malfoy had won out over his dislike of reading.

The next day, at the start of lunch, Ron muttered at last, "we'd better go," after getting in some food. The Americans were already missing.

“Think we’re going to be late?” Harry asked. “Even if we are, it isn’t likely I’ll be needed.” Ron said. “Whether or not he uses Crabbe or Goyle as his second, it’s probable that he won’t even need to substitute in the first place.”

“Why?” Harry asked, and Ron shrugged one of his shoulders. “For a second to be needed, the first has to die,” He said, casually, bluntly, uncaringly.

“Oh,” Harry said, faintly. “You don’t think?”

“Well, if Malfoy knows some dark spells his Dad taught him, then maybe.” Ron admitted. “But it’s not likely he’d have enough skill to use ‘em anyway.”

Harry felt marginally better at that.

“Try not to die yourself,” Harry said.

“Sure,” Ron replied.

* * *

 

When they got there, the three Americans were leaning against the furthermost greenhouse wall. “Hey,” Malia said, and Harry returned the greeting. “They here yet?” Ron asked. “Nope,” Scott sighed. “Don’t think they’ll show,” Stiles said without much of any emotion behind the words. “If they try to get us in trouble I’m not sure how that’d work, to be honest.”

“Are we allowed to be out here?” Harry asked, suddenly concerned. “Yeah,” Stiles said. “I asked Hermione. Apparently, Hogwarts: A History has the rules in the back.”

“Oh,” Ron said in surprise. “So it’s – worth reading?” He asked, reluctant.

“Not when Hermione can quote it verbatim.” Stiles said.

“Good,” Ron looked a little relieved. “Okay.”

The five waited a little longer, but nobody showed. “Well, we need to go eat.” Scott said, standing. “I’ll stay,” Stiles said, bored-sounding. “I ate on the way.”

Malia nodded, patted his shoulder before standing. “See you in class,” She said, then the two Americans walked off.

The group, now three not five, waited a bit longer. Malfoy did indeed show up – with Snape in tow.

Stiles sighed, stood and assumed a curious and slightly confused expression – perfectly done, as far as Harry could tell, but he didn’t know if it would fool Snape.

“Sir?” He asked, blinked in confusion, glanced between the two. “What’s going on?”

“Are you here to duel Draco?” Snape drawled. If Harry hadn’t known that he favoured Malfoy, that was a glaringly obvious clue; teachers usually referred the students by their last name, at least everywhere Harry had gone. Even the ones that sort-of liked Dudley had called him Mr. Dursley.

“No,” Stiles looked genuinely bewildered. “We were exploring the grounds, Sir.”

Ron nodded along and Harry made an agreeing noise.

“Is that so?” Snape asked. “Because Mr. Malfoy here says differently.”

“I’m sorry sir,” Stiles said. “But why would I want to ‘duel’ him, anyway?”

“Mr. Malfoy asked the same question.” Snape drew out, raised a single eyebrow ever-so-slightly in their direction.

“Is it something to do with him calling me a ‘mudblood’?” Stiles asked. “Sir? Because that didn’t really affect me much. I didn’t grow up with it.”

Snape pursed his lips. “Perhaps,” He said slowly, “It would do to be more careful in the future, Mr. Stilinski.”

With that, he turned and walked off, cloak billowing behind him. Malfoy scowled.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asked, innocently, ruined by the smile tugging at his lips.

“Nothing,” Malfoy snapped. “Reschedule. Midnight. Tonight.”

“Nope,” Stiles grinned. “Have a good day, Malfoy,” He walked past and clapped the Slytherin on the shoulder, and wandered on back to the school.

Ron grinned at Harry who grinned back, and they ignored Malfoy as they walked back to the school.

* * *

 

“We need to get them to the third floor.” Stiles said.

“Or we could say we went.” Scott offered. “Wouldn’t have the same effect.” Malia dismissed. “We need Harry to get hooked into the mystery.”

“Why do they even have to do any of this?”

“Because Harry’s the only one that can stop Quirrel,” Malia said, impatiently. This was the case in both the movies and the books, as far as the other two had told her. “His mother’s love or what have you.”

Scott sighed, but conceded the point.

“Alright,” Stiles clapped his hands together.

“So. How we gonna do this?”

* * *

 


	5. The Plan's Enacted.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Beacon Hills Trio need to get at least Harry and Ron into the third floor corridor. (Halloween is when Hermione joins the duo to form the Trio, anyway, so they don't need to worry about that so long as they don't mess that up. Somehow.)

"Alright," Stiles says to the other two americans - "Harry and Ron still don't know their way around. But the easiest thing would be to simply get them be in the halls after curfew, so they have to run from Filch and hide in the corridor."

"Or they could just be led into being lost." Malia offered. "They know we haven't gotten lost once, though - which, by the way, is still bewildering," Stiles interrupted himself to add - "So that wouldn't work."

"We wouldn't need to do that, though." Scott said. "They get lost all the time. We could - just a simple charm, maybe?"

"What, like the confundus charm?" Stiles asked. "I mean, that  _could_ work."

"I'll look it up," Malia offered. "I need to go get the charms book from the library, anyway - your prank on Snape, remember?"

"Oh yeah," Stiles said. "I might just go with the one I did to Finnstock - Scott, you remember, right?"

"Yeah, I helped unscrew things," Scott said, amused. "I remember."

"Plausible deniability -" Stiles warned, pointing at Scott. "Likely that he won't have screws, so we'll have to do it with some magic instead. But anyway," Stiles attempted to bring the topic back to operation Get Them On The Third Floor. 

"We need a better name for that," Malia sighed. Stiles inclined his head but barrelled on all the same.

"So. Confundus, direct them to the third floor?"

"Sounds about right," Malia nodded. Stiles clapped Scott on the shoulder and walked off.

"Where are you...?" Scott asked.

"Plausible deniability!" Stiles called back, then turned around and disappeared around the corner. 

* * *

The day after the not-duel Stiles and perhaps Ron were to have with Malfoy and perhaps Crabbe or Goyle was a rather normal day for Harry and Ron. 

Harry didn't have much of anything except his suspicions regarding the American students to distract him from his lessons that day - though, during History he also had playing hangman with Ron and passing messages with the other Gryffindor boys to distract himself with - though there still was his difficulty reading Snape's handwriting and the fact that he pretty much just... didn't attend DADA any more.

"Seriously?" Ron muttered to himself. "Why do you even bother?"

"I can't just  _not go,"_ Harry responded. "Aside from the fact that I'd get in trouble with the teachers and maybe even suspended or something, Hermione'd probably be a bit..."

"Of a nightmare?" Ron asked, rhetorically. "Yeah, alright. Still."

Ron dropped him off at the hospital wing and walked off, back in the direction of DADA. Harry sighed then entered the hospital, and was immediately rounded up and deposited on a bed by Madame Pompfrey, in a whirl of diagnostic spells. 

the Mediwitch tutted and poked at his scar. Harry winced, but let her check it. 

"Again, Mr Potter?" She asked. 

"Again." Harry confirmed, gloomily. 

Apparently, what Harry couldn't see is that these headaches he got in DADA were because his curse scar was acting up, which made it look inflamed and brand-spanking new, somehow. 

The Matron smoothed some salve over his scar and gave him a (rather disgusting) potion to drink, then flicked her wand and shut the privacy partion curtains. "Rest." She commanded, no-nonsense, then was gone, likely to treat another patient. 

Harry sighed, flopped onto the bed.

At least it was more comfortable than the one in his dormitory. 

* * *

The next day went much the same - except it was charms, transfiguration, and herbology.

(Though thankfully, he didn't have to go to the hospital again.)

"Where've you been?" Ron asked the americans as the dropped down onto the benches at the Gryffindor table at nearly the end of lunch.

"Planning," Stiles said, grinning. "You'll see."

"Plausible deniability," Scott said, in a manner that sounded like he was repeating a commonly heard phrase. "Don't ask." Malia advised.

Harry nodded, and returned to his hash browns.

* * *

During supper, the three friends shared glances - meaningful glances - then got up from the table and left the hall.

Harry stared after them, still suspicious. He hesitated, mentally, before nodding to himself, solidifying he resolve.

"C'mon," He said to Ron. "Let's go."

Ron frowned at him, but nodded all the same. "Alright," He said. 

The two left the room. 

(Hermione's gaze followed them, narrowed eyes not returning to her food until the great hall's doors closed behind the two.)

* * *

"You think they'll follow?" Stiles asked.

"Harry smells suspicious whenever we say or do something, so I'd say yes." Malia nodded.

Stiles nodded. "Alright. Are they-"

"About to round the corner," Scott muttered. "Let's go."

* * *

The three led the two towards the third floor, then absconded into a classroom that they could access. Harry and Ron entered after them, cautious but not quite wary enough, and then -

 _"Confundus,"_ Stiles muttered, as did Malia, and Scott went over to the two and talked to them about the third floor. The three hid, and watched as Harry and Ron blinked, shook their heads then shared a glance, shrugged, and left the room.

"We unlocked it, right?" Scott muttered.

"Yeah." Stiles said. "Yeah, I unlocked it."

* * *

Scott and Stiles waited up in their respective beds, peering through the curtains to see when Harry and Ron returned. They did - a little later than expected but before curfew - pale faced and wide-eyed.

Stiles nodded to himself.

_Plan accomplished._

* * *

Stiles winked at Scott when they saw Harry and Ron approach the Gryffindor table the next morning, looking tired but perfectly cheerful.

"So it went well then?" Malia asked, referring to both that and the practice run of the prank on Snape that they were planning.

"Yep," Stiles grinned, and Scott nodded.

"Nice," Malia smiled, as Harry and Ron sat down on the table opposite them.

"It's either really valuable or really dangerous," Ron said to Harry, as if continuing a conversation they'd been having on the way. "Or both," Harry pointed out.

"What is?" Stiles asked. He had been _sure_ that Hermione had told them about the trapdoor - unless one of them had seen it this time around?

"Never you mind," Ron grumbled, and Stiles grinned. "This about the third floor?" He asked, and Harry blinked at him.

Malia nudged him with her foot, eyes hard. Suspicion, then. Stiles shrugged.

"We were curious a few weeks back and had a look," Stiles explained. "We've been checking up on it, since."

"That's why it was unlocked, then?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," Stiles scratched the back of his head. "I don't know - we don't know any locking spells..." He said, wincing.

Malia would give him that he was good at this. Stiles hadn't had to lie around her enough for her to know that already.

(Mainly because he hadn't even tried to hide the bite on his shoulder.)

"Alright," Ron nodded. "Yeah, it's about that."

"Tell us later." Stiles said, then - "People are listening," he continued, as he looked pointedly at Hermione.

The girl looked away quickly, a little flustered at being caught. 

"Sure." Harry nodded. "Later."

* * *

 A few days passed, then it was the next potions lesson.

"Plausible deniability," Stiles told them at breakfast, winked, and then absconded to elsewhere with a single piece of toast in his hand. 

Harry blinked, then frowned at Scott and Malia.

"Plausible deniability," They chorused, Malia grinning and Scott smiling, and Harry nodded, slowly.

So the prank was today, then.

* * *

Snape scowled at them all as they filled into the seats like they normally did. 

Harry had to hold back a laugh, and Ron's ears were red with the effort. He spied Dean kicking Seamus in the shin, who, upon noticing had seen him do so, sent a fleeting amused grin in his direction.

Snape's hair was bright yellow. Not blonde, no - bright, neon yellow. And spiky. 

Aunt Petunia would  _definitely not_ approve. That... made it funnier. 

Harry didn't see this, but Scott raised an eyebrow at Stiles as if to say - 'that wasn't part of the plan'. Stiles shrugged in response. 'Figured... why not?'

"Whoever..." Snape started, slow and short, somehow simultaneously, "... made the objects in my office drop to the floor when I sat at my desk... come forward now, or face  _dire_ consequences."

Snape's eyes bored directly into Harry's own - but Harry hadn't done anything. He focused on what he'd done the night before last, because Harry had always had the feeling that Snape could see more than he should when looking at a person.

Snape pursed his lips as his nostrils flared, then he glared around at each individual person in the room.

Neville whimpered slightly, and Harry could see Scott send a worried glance in the boy's direction.

"Anyone...?" Snape asked, cold and unkindly.

Nobody said a word. 

"You will be brewing a calming draught today," Snape snapped, flicked his wand and then worse handwriting than usual scrawled across the board. "Do  _not_ destroy any cauldrons." His eyes lingered on Neville for a moment, accusing, before he swept from the room.

Quite a few people let out the laughter they'd been holding, but nobody dared say anything. At least Malfoy would be sure to tell, after all, if it was revealed who did this within earshot. 

* * *

On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the corridors.

Even better, Professor Flitwick announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly, something they had all been dying to try since they'd seen him make Neville's toad zoom around the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the class into pairs to practice. Harry's partner was Seamus Finnigan (which was a relief, because Neville had been trying to catch his eye - though Harry felt kind of bad for Scott, who got paired with him instead). Ron, however, was to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to tell whether Ron or Hermione was angrier -

_Error! System ERrRRor[--_

* * *

"Ahh... fudgesickles." Fate sighed, frowning at the screen that had shut off. 

"A break then, little sister?" Destiny wheedled. "Nope." Fate said, immediately. "I'm the only one on this godforsaken plane of existence that can work with mundane tech, asshole."

"True," Destiny mused.  _God,_ did he have to lounge on her ottoman like fucking - Rose from the goddamn titanic?

No. No he did not. He did it to annoy her, Fate felt was true.

Destiny's destiny - to completely screw with the lives of others. To be fair, that was her's too, except at least he could  _change_ them if he wanted to. 

Fate's locked in. Fate's fate is malleable, at least, but her destiny - unless her brother actually gained the ability to feel empathetic towards others, well, her destiny would always be awful.

Unless she pledged to Chaos. But, uh...  _no._ That would be worse. 

"Fine, fine," Destiny sighed. "Go, fix it like some electrician or something."

Fate glared at him, before dropping the bait. She wasn't going to rise to it,  _she wasn't._

Fate quickly - well, as quickly as you could with magical powers, which was much quicker than humans could - fixed the device masquerading as a TV, then turned it back on and tuned back into the 'verse they'd been watching.

Oh look. They'd missed the day. Fate sighed. 

"Looks like they did okay without you micro-managing them," Destiny mused. 

Bastard.

"...We'll see." Fate grumbled, returned to her chair and started typing up the notes on what they'd missed quick-fire, so as to catch up sooner.

  * _looks like the day went pretty much the same_

  * _the Alpha 'verse trio didn't interfere and the Chosen One Tro got formed as they did in a pure verse -100_
  * _potter is still wary; not good_
  * _snape is getting more angry; same as normal, there_
  * _that's it then_



* * *

"So that went off without a hitch." Scott nodded, and Malia smiled. 

"Now onto not messing up the rest of the plot, yeah?" Stiles grinned.

* * *

 


End file.
